Chapter Text
Their wedding has fewer chances for debauchery, having been disaster-proofed to the best of his mother’s abilities. Both his mother and Till insist on observing the outdated tradition of keeping the couple separated before the wedding—ostensibly for the element of surprise, although Ivan considers himself familiar enough with Till’s body, naked or clothed, to have a good idea of what Till will look like at the altar despite Mizi and his fiancé’s attempts to keep things secret.
And yet, the sight of Till impacts Ivan somewhere between the sternum and the sixth rib; he feels his movements grow stiff and cautious, as if to protect the tender, bruise-like feeling radiating from his chest. Till stomps on his foot discreetly—or what he believes is discreetly—when Ivan stares a little too long at the wedding rings, presented on a small velvet cushion. The hand Till extends him is cold and clammy. Ivan reminds himself to tease Till about this later, as they are currently likely to end in a draw, what with Ivan’s hands trembling and clumsy.
He regains his balance after the ceremony ends. Sua and Mizi combine their speeches. Sua supplies the embarrassing anecdotes, Mizi’s relentless optimism the gloss; the speech manages to be genuinely congratulatory, landing just shy of sentimental. Till tears up and drinks like he needs a distraction.
His—as of three hours ago—husband is what some people might call an ugly crier. Ivan adores it. Till’s chin dimples like a peach pit and his skin goes blotchy; as Mizi tells a charming childhood anecdote lacking two-thirds of its original context, Till sniffles hard to try and stop snotting down his face. He raises his arm before taking in his expensive suit and pausing.
While Till is frozen in a moment of hesitation between the fancy linen napkins and his dry-clean only suit, Ivan leans over and whispers, “Do it on mine. I want it as a keepsake.”
“Don’t be gross,” Till hisses, eyes darting around the table. Strategically, Mizi and Sua’s empty seats provide a barrier between them and the other guests; as such, Ivan feels no shame in continuing.
“Which mucous membrane of yours am I not intimately familiar with? This morning, I put my face in your pudendum—” Till makes an enraged, muffled sound between his teeth and slams his champagne like cheap liquor.
When the married couple makes their way back to the table, Till is well on the way to being thoroughly plastered. He’s aware enough that a single look from Sua freezes him before he can pounce on Mizi and then his natural awkwardness around her kicks in. Till’s hands withdraw and end up wrapping around Ivan’s neck. “Thank you for making me believe in love,” he sniffles. Ivan is beginning to sense a pattern to his inebriation.
Mizi beams. “All I did was tell the truth.” Sua’s expression, behind Mizi’s back, indicates that she’s holding back for the sake of her wife. “I really liked the venue and the nice big bathrooms.” She looks a little too pleased, but Ivan owes her a favor—or rather, several—and it really was the least he could do, even if his meticulous schedule prevented him from making good use of them.
Till brightens at the mention of the venue. “It was me, Ivan’s mom, and the wedding planner against this guy over here,” he says, prodding Ivan. Ivan, reaching the limits of his restraint, gives the pad of Till’s finger a sharp bite; Till is either too drunk or too excited to take offense, absentmindedly wiping his finger on Ivan’s suit in favor of continuing to prod. “He has absolutely no taste.”
“You kept my tasteless ring,” Ivan reminds him. Till reflexively clutches at his chest, as if guarding the ring worn there.
“Did you really buy him six?” Mizi asks, eyes sparkling.
“Seven,” Ivan says, preening, unable to resist showing off his wedding band. Apparently, this is enough to move Till into a fresh bout of tears.
“You know,” Till slurs to Sua. He’s been quiet, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness and drooling on Ivan’s shoulder; Ivan thought he’d fallen asleep. “I never thanked you for making the second proposal slightly less of a disaster. So, thank you,” he says.
Sua looks unimpressed. “I have yet to decide if that was a good idea,” she replies.
“The sex was so good,” Till continues, reminiscing. Ivan perks up, suddenly very invested in what Till has to say. “Really, really good. I’ve literally never had sex like that before. I think I sprained something,” he says with a happy sigh.
“I don’t want to hear about this,” Sua says, but she has her phone out, filming so that Mizi, who finds these things adorable, can replay the video later. And for blackmail purposes. Sua and Ivan exchange a loaded look.
“He wanted me so bad,” Till says, oblivious to whose shoulder he’s resting on. “It was fucking hot.” Ivan could develop amnesia tomorrow and he would still remember Till saying this. “I was so glad,” he says, quieter, mumbling. “I never thought I’d miss him until he wasn’t there.”
The bruised rib feeling returns. Ivan stands up abruptly, slinging Till over his shoulder. Mizi, a little tipsy herself, claps. Ivan wants to be alone with his new husband. He thinks they’ve spent long enough here.
After all, it’s their wedding night.
On Till’s thirty-third birthday, he wakes up to his husband eating him out. His eyes fly open to absolute darkness as Ivan—it’s definitely Ivan, no one else would introduce so many teeth or monologue while licking into him—puts his mouth around Till’s clit and sucks. He comes into Ivan’s mouth confused, disoriented, and unfortunately turned on.
“It is,” Till pants, shuddering through the aftershocks as Ivan keeps mouthing at him. “Three forty-two in the morning.”
Ivan worms his way out of the blankets, looming over Till in the dark. “That’s the time written on your birth certificate,” he replies, smug and matter of fact like that’s supposed to explain everything.
It might, in Ivan’s head. He’s become weird about dates and significant events, lately. He might have always been weird about them, now that Till thinks about it—Ivan was always suspiciously quick to name a date and time for any of the many indignities Till’s suffered.
In hindsight, it’s kind of ironic that twenty-five year old Till worried about dying alone, but then, Ivan is incomprehensible. Some things are becoming annoyingly clear about Till’s husband, however.
Take their second anniversary, for example.
Till wondered, naively, why Ivan booked a series of hotels when he had already done that for their first anniversary.
“I wanted to take you somewhere better for the proposal,” Ivan said, when Till questioned being presented with a bunch of eye-wateringly expensive—and exclusive—names. “Somewhere out of town. But I had to keep it a secret and I didn’t want anyone to report you missing.”
(“I would have,” said Sua, when Till repeated this exchange to her. “I would’ve liked to see him explain everything to the police.”)
Till, at the time, hadn’t been sure whether to be touched by the sentiment or annoyed by the reminder that Ivan quite literally abducted him, and with his cognitive processor busy repressing the urge to strangle Ivan or worse, he didn’t think to interrogate Ivan about ulterior motives until they were at the first hotel.
Then, Till noticed a pattern.
“Congratulations on your wedding,” said the third person of the night, giggling, tipsy off of the generous offerings available at this particular five-star hotel’s bar. “Coming to Paris for your honeymoon is sooo romantic,” the woman continued. “What a catch.” She winked and tipped her chin in an exaggerated fashion at Ivan, who was definitely late getting Till’s drink order. “Hey, how did you do it?” She asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
Till did not say, “Actually, he broke my foot,” or divulge anything that actually happened, mostly to spare his own dignity. “We’re childhood friends,” he said, though that sounded wrong. Sure, Till voluntarily stuck around Ivan for decades—though, knowing what he did now, he wasn’t sure having Ivan in his life was his decision to make. “Excuse me,” he said, making his way to his infuriating husband.
One person congratulating Till on a wedding that happened two years ago could have been excused as an innocent drunken slip. Two, a misunderstanding. Three, and Till realized it was no longer a coincidence. He glared at Ivan, who had his shirt unbuttoned down to what, for Ivan, might as well have been his navel, ring visible nestled against his outrageous cleavage. Ivan had attracted a group of random strangers, as Ivan was wont to when left alone in a public setting for more than a few minutes, and he looked far too pleased with himself for Till’s comfort. His irritation increased when Ivan’s audience started cooing and congratulating the two of them; Till had no idea what kind of outrageous lies Ivan had been telling.
“Let’s go,” he hissed into Ivan’s ear.
“What about your drink?” Ivan murmured.
“I’ll order room service,” Till said. Ivan’s gaze fixed on him with rapt, predatory focus.
Till let Ivan figure out how to make the right excuses and he let Ivan slide his arm around Till’s waist, hand gripping Till’s hip hard enough to bruise. He did, however, slap Ivan’s hand away when it started getting too grabby.
“Why do you keep telling everyone it’s our honeymoon?” Till demanded.
Ivan put his nose in Till’s hair and breathed in. “For some reason,” Ivan said, tone light and casual despite the hand he was trying to stick down Till’s pants. “A second anniversary isn’t perceived as being as romantic as a honeymoon. Or a thirtieth anniversary.”
“People find childhood sweethearts romantic regardless,” Till replied, thinking of how often people remarked on it and how often Ivan brought the concept up.
“I thought you didn’t like that term,” Ivan said.
“It sounds too sanitized, but it’s better than the alternative. You are not telling people we’ve been married for more than twenty years,” Till warned.
Ivan hummed in amusement. “That wouldn’t be plausible. Ten years, perhaps, maybe fifteen—a bit of a stretch. You were never in danger of becoming an old maid or anything of the sort, especially not in your twenties.”
“I was extremely drunk and understandably upset,” Till said immediately. “And you should be on your knees thanking your lucky stars I was or you wouldn’t have come up with something as stupid as a marriage pact.”
“I can get on my knees,” Ivan purred.
“Do not,” Till hissed. The elevator dinged. There was still hope for Till in this world. He escaped Ivan long enough to make it to their hotel room door, then Ivan came crashing into him from behind, sending them stumbling into the suite.
Thinking about Ivan’s recent fixation on dates and milestones has Till getting introspective. Getting woken up at not-quite-4 a.m. doesn’t help; his thoughts are making wild connections. The combined influence makes Till blurt, “Do you wish we were actually celebrating our fifteenth anniversary,” as Ivan gets ready to slide back under the covers.
Ivan pauses. “I’ve wanted many things throughout the years,” he replies carefully. He’s gotten better at saying things with actual, usable information ever since Till laid down that particular ultimatum, but he’s cagey like Till is cross-examining him in a court of law instead of asking his husband valid questions.
“When you brought it up, you said it like a joke, but you were pretty damn determined about getting to a proposal,” Till says.
Ivan considers his options. “I didn’t realize it was an option before you made it one. Implicitly.” He tosses the blanket aside and applies himself to preparing Till with a vengeance, but if Ivan thinks several consecutive orgasms will retroactively erase that admission from Till’s brain, he’s wrong; the knowledge sits in his chest, both light and substantial, growing when their fingers intertwine and spreading to his whole body when Till lays exhausted in the sweaty aftermath.
He stares at the ceiling, chest heaving. Sex with Ivan is always a mind-blowing experience, devotional and intense and wet. Till thinks there are few men on earth who enjoy gushy pussy, enjoy the pure act of working people up just to see them go taut and tense, as much as Ivan does.
“If I was still single,” Till mumbles. “That’s what you said.”
Ivan hums in agreement.
“…You depress me, sometimes.”
The sheets rustle as Ivan rolls over, placing a hand on Till’s chest. Metal jingles as he toys with the jewelry.
For a moment, he closes his eyes. He’s not sleepy—Till feels sick more than anything, but he can’t stop the cogs from turning.
Ivan is not so much a private person as an elusive person. When they were younger, the difference wasn’t so obvious. He hadn’t yet learned how to pull on a mask to fit in, to meet his parents’ high-society standards. It made Till uncomfortable, watching the boy who collected roly-polies with him in elementary school straighten himself out, sharpening his tongue and withholding his fists.
That night in the bar eight years ago, desperation must have consumed him. How long had he been holding that suggestion in his throat, dancing around the subject? How long had the concept been bubbling beneath the surface, itching to break free?
All those nights he crashed on Ivan’s couch? Every time Till exposed the pieces of his broken heart and Ivan helped him stitch it back together?
Till cannot comprehend that level of restraint. Five minutes have passed since Ivan pulled out—this is Till’s limit. “If you die before me, I’ll kill you.”
Ivan laughs. The accompanying smile is of the eye-crinkling, genuine variety. “You say such sweet things.”
There’s no point in grabbing Ivan’s cock; he’s spent. Regardless, Till rolls his hips, grinding into it with practiced ease. He kisses Ivan sweet and slow, hands cupped around his face to pull him closer. He nibbles at Ivan’s lips, pecks his cheeks, breathes all over his face. Ivan’s stubble tickles.
Ivan is suspiciously quiet and for that Till is grateful. His emotions are running high on the surface. He’s about to cry and he knows it.
“No more games,” Till whispers, squeezing Ivan’s hand. They might not always agree. They’ll probably still fight all the time. But right this minute, Till wants what Ivan wants. He wants to know what Ivan wants.
A partner. A lover. Commitment. Promises.
“Of course not. There’s no need for them anymore. I won.” His grin is lopsided and he’s intertwined their fingers.
Till snorts, feeling Ivan twitch beneath him. “Arguable.”
“I’m open to negotiation. New deals and the like.”
“One of these days, I’m going to shove my foot up your ass.”
“Can you wear a mold when you do it? I’d like to keep the cast as a permanent decora—”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re no fun.”
“We’re in our thirties. The time for fun has passed.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ivan sing-songs, flipping Till over, adjusting his limbs. “The average human life expectancy has increased by over a decade this century. We have plenty of time.”
There will be time for discussions of the future later. Ideal environments to grow old in, the prospect of starting a family. In the short-term, Till growls, urging Ivan to fuck him roughly. As hard as he wants.
“Be careful what you wish for.”
Till is aware of the risks. He married Ivan with his eyes wide open.
He drives his canines into Ivan’s neck hard enough to bruise. Ivan’s breath hitches. He falters, briefly, when Till tugs on his hair, damn-near ripping a clump out. “I know who I married. Do you?”
No, is the answer to that. Ivan has never known Till as well as he would like. Till is a mystery to him; the finest, most wonderful enigma—he is a puzzle Ivan can’t solve. Won’t solve.
“I know enough,” he confesses. Till shivers. It’s overwhelming, sometimes, exposing himself like this.
They fuck and they kiss and they kiss and they fuck. They chase each other into the bathroom like children, bruising skin on tile. On porcelain.
Happiness is quiet and subtle, bright in all the ways it lies unacknowledged. Actions speak louder than words, so Till makes a mental note to buy Ivan flowers, even though it’s his birthday.
When they’re clean and the lights flick off, when they’re curled in each other’s arms, Till realizes that he’s at home.
He displays his gratitude by burrowing into Ivan’s warmth.
This is the closest either of them will come to saying those three little words.