[IVANTILL] Where the Heart Found its Cure
ACT I: The Roommate I Didn’t Choose
The final papers were finally submitted, leaving Till Lee feeling less accomplished and more just-about-done-with-this-whole-college-thing. It was 2020.
His silver hair, usually a mess, probably looked even worse now, matching the deep shadows under his teal eyes, proof of too many ramen-fueled nights staring at textbooks that somehow still didn't make him rich.
“Finally,” he grumbled, pushing away from his desk. “Maybe now I can actually sleep for more than four hours. Or at least not stare at a screen for once.”
He moved with shoulders that always curved forward, an air of calculated disinterest that usually kept most people from bothering him. It was a protective front he presented, particularly when he just wanted to stew in his own thoughts, which lately mostly revolved around escaping.
Sipping bitter coffee on his unit’s balcony, he watched the golden-orange twilight stretch across the sky. Below, the city stirred with activity, never quite calming its din, car horns cut through the stream of talk rising from cafes along the street.
Till’s gaze, still, held no interest for the city’s usual sounds and activity. His plan had been simple: head to the port city, always in motion on Korea’s southern coast, and look for work. That look for work bit, Till soon discovered, largely involved staring at job boards that offered nothing but dead ends. Busan, a place Till had always found himself drawn to, felt like a whole different world compared to Seoul’s never-ending sprawl in his mind.
The vision snapped short when his phone rang, his mother. “The city’s perfectly safe, Eomma,” he’d told her, a conversation he’d had countless times playing out. “No need to be a worrywart. It’s not like I’m in some wild rural town.” He could almost hear her sigh.
“But why all the way in this place, dear? Why not here, where you grew up?”
He was tired of the same old routine, the streets he knew like the back of his hand in Gangnam. A port city, with its never-sitting-still energy, sounded like just the ticket.
Till shrugged, even though she couldn’t see him. “Just needed a change of scenery, Eomma. The city was getting stale. Thought I’d try living by the water for a bit.”
He didn't mention the real reason, obviously. His phone buzzed then, a text from Acorn:
”Still pretending to be a beach bum? Or did Mizi finally wise up and tell you where to go?”
Short and pointed, just like his namesake, Acorn was always digging for the truth. Till grumbled, but left the message unread. Maybe Mizi was part of it. A tiny awkward part, sure! But a part.
Mizi. The memory was like a stubborn bruise, a resigned surrender. He hadn’t been rejected because he was a terrible person, or because he’d done something wrong. It wasn’t because Till wasn’t popular either. After that G-Dragon song Crooked at the festival, everyone knew him. He was that heartbroken rocker guy, which was honestly a bit embarrassing. So yeah, popularity wasn’t the issue.
No, Mizi just liked someone else. Someone much cheerier, far more charming, absolutely more... Sua.
Even the name felt like sunshine, but Sua, like a lamp behind a frosted pane, held a controlled kind of light. Mizi and Sua had that easy, bright way about them, all bursts of mutual amusement and glances that somehow bypassed words. But Sua's eyes, even when bright, often held a veiled guardedness, a sense of something held back. Till had seen the kindness Mizi showed him, the gentle smiles, the easy chats.
He’d told himself it was just basic human decency. Just mutual kindness. He knew Mizi was into Sua, not him. He wasn’t some sasaeng freak, thank the stars. Or whatever cosmic joke was playing out. But the hints, the soft looks, they’d felt like something else. Foolish on his part, maybe. But still.
Someone would probably tell him to “just find someone else.” They didn’t get it. One doesn’t just switch biases because the industry churns out new idols every week. Once one picked his main, that was it. Even if his main was... a total mess. Till was a loyal fool that way.
Like sticking with a bias even after a dating scandal, or that weird controversy with the fan gifts. His main was his main, no matter what. And who was he supposed to tell? “Hey, I think I like this girl. Don’t worry about why, it’s just... she’s the one. And everyone else already agrees anyway.” Like trying to explain why his bias was his bias. One didn’t need reasons. One just knew. This though, was a whole new level of just knew it.
And what could he do? He couldn't blame Mizi. The goddess he'd probably build a ridiculous shrine, just to show his utterly pathetic devotion. Or Sua. He knew, logically, that people liked who they liked. It wasn't their fault his life kept rolling out like a particularly dull, endless black-and-white film.
“Aish! Shibal,” Till grumbled, mostly to himself. Maybe Busan was just the appropriate stage for this particular act of ongoing tragedy.
Destiny, as it turned out, delivered a different outcome. A global pandemic impacted the world, shattering Till's carefully made plans. He found himself in the city, now hushed, its previous lively activity replaced by a deep cessation of everyday sounds that put him on edge.
The streets, once rumored to have been swarming with people (sure, whatever), were now just… empty.
The only background noise was the shrill cry of ambulance sirens and the hurried movements of medical staff, no doubt trying to avoid stepping in something unpleasant. The clinical odor of disinfectant now clung to everything, effectively squashing any remaining, romantic notions of sea air or coastal scents from fishing boats, which likely just smelled of dead fish anyway.
Amidst this thrilling new absence of background noise that frankly just made him tense, Till somehow bumped into Ivan Baek. This guy had a smile that could light the whole room, and eyes that shone with a mild, soft light—which, to Till, just meant he was probably way too optimistic for his own good.
Ivan, supposedly an SNU alum, carried himself like he hadn’t heard there was a global disaster happening. He was all open and lively, radiating spirit, even as the world pressed down harder on everyone else. Exasperating. Till had to wonder if Ivan was simply one of those freelance graphic designers, detached from reality by the click of a mouse and the glow of a screen.
Their paths crossed not in some loud coffee shop (because those didn’t exist anymore), but in the eerily clean aisles of a mostly empty neighborhood GS25, where no footsteps sounded, no voices carried. Till, feeling always annoyed, scowled at the half-bare shelves. He sorely needed actual food, something that wasn’t from a can, but the options were, predictably depressing.
His frustration clenched his stomach, twisting in his gut. He reached for what looked like the last sad bag of potatoes, only for his hand to smack into someone else's.
“Oh, sorry,” a voice chirped, as if nothing in the world truly bothered him, light and easy.
Till glanced up, a snarky remark already forming on his tongue, but then it just… died. Standing there was Ivan, complete with a blue SNU lanyard hanging around his neck like some kind of proud badge. His smile was still doing its blinding thing, lighting up his whole face and those overly kind black eyes.
He definitely wasn’t like the other frazzled shoppers, who at least looked like they were suffering appropriately. This guy moved with a local’s bizarre calm, actually putting items back on a shelf, like some newly arrived instant noodles were a treasure.
“Looking for something specific?” Ivan asked, sounding entirely too eager to lend a hand. “The fresh stuff comes in early, but it goes fast. Most folks don’t even know this place gets it.” He even made some loose wave of his hand towards the back of the store.
Till just gave him a curt nod, his gaze flicking from Ivan’s smiling face to the glaring SNU logo, then back to the potatoes. ‘SNU? What’s he doing here, playing grocer or something?’ The question, thankfully, stayed trapped in his head.
Ivan, completely missing Till”s obvious disinterest, picked up the bag of potatoes. “Here. You take it. I can make do.” He offered it, like it was perfectly normal to just give away scarce food.
Nobody just gave things away. Not here. Not now. This thought sparked a weird knot in Till’s chest, a conflicting blend of relief (potatoes!) and deep suspicion. His brow furrowed slightly.
“Why?” he managed, the single word coming out harsher than he intended.
Ivan’s smile, without a single falter, didn’t even twitch. “Just being neighborly, I guess,” he replied, his eyes actually crinkling at the corners. “And I know how tough it can be to get fresh food these days. Especially if you’re not from around here.” His gaze knew more than it should, which just made Till want to recoil. “You went to SNU too, didn’t you? I saw your bag outside.”
He then gestured towards Till’s scuffed backpack slung over Till’s shoulder, a bright red luggage tag still dangling from a zipper. “And the name tag, of course. Till Lee. Nice to finally put a name to the never-not-annoyed face.”
A stretch of what felt like an eternity without sound passed between them, probably while Ivan waited for some sort of thank you. Till just narrowed his eyes, taking in Ivan properly now. The black hair, the kind black eyes, the friendly, open face. Another SNU grad, stuck in Busan just like him.
The thought, even though it meant they had something in common, brought absolutely no comfort. But the potatoes in his hand were real, a truly surprising act of goodwill that was almost... unsettling.
Till couldn’t help but notice Ivan stood far too close, completely ignoring the widely broadcasted social distancing guidelines. ‘The man’s practically inviting biological disaster,’ Till grumbled inwardly. It was as if Ivan regarded a deadly virus as a mere suggestion, a biological disaster offering itself up as a friendly suggestion.
Hours later, phone pressed to his ear, Till found himself venting, much to his own irritation. “Eomma, you would not believe this guy at the minimart,” he began, his voice laced with exasperation. “He’s always there. Every single time I go. And he acts like the pandemic is some kind of optional suggestion. He just... invades my space. Hands me things. Talks.”
“Oh, my dear,” his mother said, her voice dripping with thinly veiled concern, which Till knew was actually curiosity. “Perhaps he’s just being friendly, my son. It is a lonely time?”
“Friendly?” Till scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Eomma, he tried to tell me—my face looked never-not annoyed. It’s not friendly, it’s a social violation. He’s like a one-man wrecking crew for personal boundaries.”
“Till-ah,” his mother sighed, a sound that Till knew meant she was about to deliver counsel he hadn’t asked for, or worse, money. “Don’t fret so much about a harmless neighbor. Just ignore him. Anyway, I transferred 1,500,000 won to your account this morning. That should cover you for a while. You understand how volatile things are now.”
Till’s jaw tightened. There it was. The allowance. His mother’s government job, with its ironclad benefits and the paychecks she dispatched like clockwork, was meant to be a comfort. Instead, every won she sent, every benefit she mentioned, felt like a fresh shackle.
He’d bolted for Busan in the first place, not just to escape Seoul’s choking expanse, but to peel himself from her influence, from being her financial burden. This money, a cutting confirmation of his dependence, felt like a chain tightening around his ankle.
“Eomma, I told you I don’t need your money,” he muttered, his voice tight with a composure he didn’t feel. “I’m fine. I’m looking for a job.” He ended the call abruptly, the click of the phone louder than he intended.
Till’s eyes rolled so far back they were stuck in place, his guard shooting up the second Ivan appeared. He simply couldn’t wrap his head around how anyone could still be so resolutely bright in a situation that was, to him, truly and utterly bleak. It felt almost insulting.
Everyone else was walking around like zombies, their faces half-hidden by masks, muttering about vaccine appointments and booster shots. But not Ivan.
It happened in a half-empty GS25, near the back where the depressing, limited stock of snacks sat looking forlorn. Till had just stepped outside the automatic doors, pulling a cigarette from a crumpled pack that had seen better days.
The idea of that throat-catching sting in his lungs felt like the only short break from the total lack of sound that made him feel as though the air had been squeezed from the room. He brought the cigarette to his lips, flicking his lighter. Just as the pathetic little flame sputtered to life, a hand, shockingly quick and firm, plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth.
Till snapped his head up. Ivan stood there, his expression unreadable, his breathing even, the stolen cigarette held between two fingers. It was broken in half. Broken.
“Are you serious?” Till demanded, his voice edged with a jaw that had gone slack. “What in the actual world was that for?”
Ivan, of course, just offered that same soft, apologetic smile. “Smoking with a global sickness spreading? Not the brightest idea, is it?” His black eyes stayed wide, reflecting a calm Till couldn’t comprehend, making his annoyance flare even higher.
This wasn’t their first encounter in the grocery store, where every drag of Till’s shoe on the tile carried too far. It had started weeks ago, a habit he couldn’t seem to break.
He’d seen Ivan almost every other day. One morning, Till was grabbing instant ramen, his usual breakfast of champions, when Ivan appeared beside him, tossing a small bag of fresh bell peppers into his own basket. “Still living off that stuff?” Ivan had asked, a head tilted just enough to irk Till.
Till had grunted, a sound that conveyed his utter lack of interest. His fingers had tightened around the ramen packet, as if protecting his terrible life choices. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he’d thought, eyes narrowing, but he’d only offered a dismissive half-shrug, turning back to the shelf. He could feel Ivan’s gaze holding, its heat irritating against his neck.
“Hey,” Ivan had then chimed in, picking up a bright red chili ramen packet from Till’s basket, “this flavor is just... aggressively spicy. You should try the kimchi one. It’s got more complex layers of taste.” Till had just snatched the packet back, his lip twitching. As if he needed ramen recommendations from the walking ray of positivity.
Another time, Till had been reaching for his usual cheap beer, and Ivan was right there, examining a foreign craft beer bottle with intense focus.
“Trying something new?” Ivan had asked.
Till had just narrowed his eyes, wondering if Ivan was secretly judging his life choices. ‘None of your concern,’ Till had almost said, his jaw tightening. Instead, he’d pulled his hand back, grabbed the cheapest beer on the shelf, and walked away without a word. He could hear Ivan’s soft chuckle behind him, a sound that rubbed him the wrong way.
“Aah, that one,” Ivan had called out, making Till wince. “Very... budget-friendly. But if you like something with a bit more character, there’s this new wheat beer on aisle three. It’s got subtle notes of fruit, and it pairs wonderfully with fried chicken.” Till had just kept walking, pretending his ears hadn’t registered the unasked-for assessment of his beer choice. As if he was suddenly a judge of fine brews.
These short, unlooked-for interactions had become a strange fixture of Till's lockdown routine.
He’d find himself subconsciously scanning the aisles for Ivan, just to make sure he was prepared for the next dose of unrequested sunshine. He didn’t want to see Ivan, of course. But seeing him, even just for a few seconds, had become... strangely tolerable. A hesitant, reluctant nod to the universe that he was, indeed, not completely alone.
One Tuesday that felt suspiciously like a Monday, the kind of day where even the weather was mocking his existence, Till was doing his usual sweep of the ramen aisle at GS25, pretending intense interest in the spice levels, when a bright voice spoke from directly behind him. “Window shopping? Or just admiring the packaging?”
Till flinched, nearly dropping his basket. He spun around, his heart doing a stupid little jump. Ivan stood there, a smile that spread from ear to ear, no trace of apology stretching across his face, a bag of ludicrously healthy-looking kale clutched in one hand.
Till was making his way out of the GS25, head down, already bracing for the miserable walk home. He heard a quick struggle behind him, a yelp, and then a hurried set of footsteps. He glanced back, his patience already thin at the disruption, and saw Ivan, a grocery bag spilled around his feet, staring wide-eyed at a figure disappearing around the corner, clutching something.
A pickpocket. Till sighed. ‘Just his luck,’ he thought, it was exactly what he’d expected.
Before he even thought about it, Till cursed under his breath. He dropped his own meager bag and took off, not because he was a hero, but because the clumsy way it happened rubbed him the wrong way. He cut a corner, spotted the pickpocket, and, without really planning it, stuck out a foot.
The figure tripped, sprawling, and a wallet skittered across the streaked pavement, dark with grime. Till stared at it, then at the thief, then back at the wallet. The thief scrambled up, mumbled something incoherent, and disappeared. Till picked up the wallet, flicking it open.
Ivan’s ID. Of course.
He walked back to Ivan, who was still standing amidst his spilled groceries, looking as if his brain had hit a wall. Till tossed the wallet. “Here,” he grunted, avoiding Ivan’s eyes. “Don’t just stand there like a lump. This city’s full of desperate people. You should probably watch your stuff.”
Ivan’s eyes widened, then a smile that seemed to question reality as it appeared across his face. “You... you got it back! Thank you! That was amazing! You really came through!” Ivan’s voice was filled with a loosening of tension that made Till want to recoil. “I don’t know what I would’ve done. Thank you. Seriously.”
Till just scowled, bending down to help Ivan gather his spilled groceries, mostly just to avoid the effusive thanks. ‘Great,’ he thought. ‘Now I’m a good Samaritan. This is going to be even more annoying.’
“How can you even smile right now?” Till snapped one day, his voice thick with the cynical viewpoint he’d carefully nurtured over years. “When the world is actively crumbling, and people are dropping like flies?" He fixed Ivan with a look that practically dared him to come up with some idiotic, feel-good answer.
“Because there are still good things in this world,” Ivan replied, his smile not even flickering. “We must remain optimistic and believe everything will be alright.”
Till blew air out of his nose, rolling his eyes so hard he nearly pulled a muscle. “You sound like someone whose head is permanently stuck in the clouds,” he sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Look around you! The illness is widespread, fear is practically a visible thing, and you can still babble about good things?”
“Of course,” Ivan replied, without a single waver in his impossibly sunny disposition, his voice still unshaken and level. “We must not give in to losing all hope. It’s only in times like these that we have to prop each other up and seek reasons to keep going.”
“Tsk, How utterly idealistic,” Till said, his voice laced with mocking humor. “You actually think this virus will just vanish like magic if we’re all, what, optimistic? You think that by believing in good things, all problems will just magically disappear into thin air?”
“I don’t know if this virus will just vanish,” Ivan replied with the patience of a saint, his gaze holding Till’s. “But I believe that if we keep our chin up and pull together, we can weather this storm. Isn’t that better than sitting around mourning our inevitable doom?”
Till paused, the words, much to his frustration, making some kind of warped sense. He couldn’t shake the feeling there was something he didn’t want to hear in what Ivan had said. Yet, a brick wall that would not yield held him back from admitting anything that left him feeling exposed.
“Whatever,” Till finally said, his voice flat with studied indifference. “I’m not buying what you’re selling about optimism and good things. Sounds like a scam.”
“You’ll be asking for some optimism and good things when all your cynicism becomes too much to bear, Tilly,” Ivan said, an unforced chuckle escaping him, the sheer audacity. “But don’t worry, I’ve got your back... and maybe a reassuring embrace...” He gave a look that held a secret, his voice brisk and airy, as he added the last words that made Till’s skin crawl.
“Don’t call me Tilly,” Till snapped, his voice edged with a sudden tension that tightened his throat. “We are not close enough for that. Ever.” He pulled his scarf higher, the pathetic thin fabric offering absolutely zero protection against the biting wind which, to Till, actively enjoyed moving through the miserably empty streets.
Ivan, still radiating a calm that grated on Till’s nerves, merely shrugged, his gloved hands tucked deep into the pockets of his coat. “But Tilly,” he dared to counter, a gentle teasing in his voice, “is much more endearing than Till Lee. It rolls off the tongue better, don’t you think?”
Till stared at him, his teal eyes practically shooting lasers that promised instant vaporization. “It’s my name,” he clipped out, each word delivered with the precision of a glass shard, “and I prefer it used in its entirety. Most critically by someone I barely know. Is that so difficult?”
Ivan just offered that infuriatingly slight turn of his lips, as if he’d just received wonderful news, taking Till’s perfectly reasonable demand in stride. “One day you will understand, Tilly,” he said with a voice too sweet for Till’s ears, his gaze softening like Till was some lost puppy. “You will understand that optimism and real caring are the things that make this life worth living, even in times like these.”
He even made a sweeping gesture with his hand, pointing to the boarded-up shops and deserted streets, like Till needed a visual aid for the obvious misery of their situation.
Till let out a short sharp exhale, a sound of breath forced through clenched teeth, and spun away, his lip curling in disgust. “I don’t need any of this touchy-feely nonsense,” he muttered, yanking his scarf higher, as if the thin fabric could somehow block out the irritating gleam of Ivan’s hopeful outlook. “I’m used to standing on my own two feet, and that’s all there is to it. End of story.”
Ivan, naturally, only shook his head. His gaze, landing on Till, screamed concerned Golden Retriever. He probably thought he was seeing right past Till's shell, built brick by painstaking brick, sensing some imaginary soft spot kept hidden beneath.
Lost in an optimism so vast it ignored reality, Ivan probably harbored some secret wish that, someday, he might magically thaw Till's layers of ice, revealing the true meaning of belonging and some way he'd simply be there for another, a presence that asked for nothing. Please.
Till let out a short scoff, rolling his eyes so hard he was pretty sure he saw his own brain. Ivan’s earnest words held absolutely no sway, in Till’s many years of observation, the world was crammed full of nothing but broken promises and betrayals.
He simply couldn't grasp how anyone could be so utterly unaware of the world's harshness, embracing a positive view with such baffling, unquestioning acceptance. It was like living on a different planet.
Yet, because the universe apparently had a dark sense of humor, the situation decided to shove their paths together in the most unanticipated, inconvenient way possible. Just as the city went into full lockdown, Till’s own residence received a stricter quarantine order. The building’s manager’s automated message, tinny and emotionless, had crackled through his phone:
“A cluster of cases has been identified within your building. Strict quarantine protocols are now in effect for all residents.”
‘Out of the frying pan, directly into the fire,’ he’d thought grimly. It wasn’t an invitation Till could, as it happened, refuse.
He remembered the utter humiliation of packing his pathetic meager belongings, the strange, light feel of his small suitcase in his hand as he trudged past the stern-faced guards.
And then, of course, he saw Ivan waiting at the curb of his new building in Marine City, a face creased with that overly bright welcome that Till met with a tight, clenched jaw. The city, now officially under lockdown, had left absolutely no choice but for Till and Ivan to share Ivan's compact apartment.
With no job prospects, no savings to speak of, and the entire world deciding to shut its doors, Ivan’s offer of free accommodation, impossible as it sounded, was Till’s only way out of the quarantine order.
Ivan stepped forward, reaching for Till’s suitcase as if it weighed nothing. “Rough go, huh? Don’t sweat it, my place is right here. You can crash with me for a bit. We’ll make it work.”
“I can manage just fine,” Till muttered, but his grip on the suitcase loosened anyway. He watched Ivan haul it effortlessly, like he was carrying a feather. ‘He’s really doing this,’ Till realized, a weird floating sensation in his limbs, a feeling of being carried, that he absolutely hated.
This locked-down, miserable place had effectively forced Till into a temporary, unwanted roommate situation with the single most optimistic person on the peninsula. Fantastic.
When they first started this whole living together disaster, Till basically bristled like a grumpy cat every time Ivan was in the same room. Being by himself was Till's natural, preferred state, so sharing these four walls with another human just felt fundamentally wrong.
He hated sharing his personal territory, every square inch of this place, in his opinion, and his precious possessions, and found Ivan's utterly baffling ways of doing things and his endless quirks to be decidedly, aggressively odd.
Till’s paranoia about Ivan was immediate. Before his own total quarantine, he’d risked his life buying food supplies or was forced to go to work once a week, and the outside world felt like a germ-ridden trap. So, Ivan, who came and went, became a potential biohazard. Till usually just stayed cooped up in his room, only venturing out for the bathroom. He’d hover by the door, listening, only daring to enter the kitchen if he was absolutely sure Ivan had finished whatever bright, cheerful business he was conducting.
“No strange symptoms, right?” Till would ask, voice clipped, whenever he saw Ivan. “You’ve had your vaccine shots? All of them?” Ivan would just offer that smile that seemed to mock the very idea of a bad mood.
“Healthy as a horse! 100%. Don’t you worry your head about it.” His easy shrug only made Till’s insides twist. As if a virus cared about being 100% healthy.
From the moment Ivan had first offered free accommodation, a warning bell blared for Till. Ivan had simply waved off any talk of rent, saying it was covered. But Till, who lived by the precise math of give-and-take, couldn't stomach the idea of freeloading.
Asking Ivan for the exact amount, still, would mean initiating conversation, a level of direct interaction Till typically avoided. So, after a week, he resorted to his own solution. A plain white envelope, containing what he calculated to be his share of the month’s rent, slipped onto the coffee table. Ivan never touched it. Not even a glance. After a month, the envelope remained in the exact same spot, its unbent corners mocking Till’s efforts, leaving him at his wit’s end.
Every morning felt less like a sunrise and more like a battle. Till preferred sips of his coffee that made no sound, black as his mood, in their unit where not a thing moved. Ivan, on the other hand, was a full-blown explosion of arms flailing and quick steps.
He’d belt out off-key tunes while he cooked, inevitably leaving a fine dusting of white something on the countertop he’d supposedly just wiped clean. Then, without fail, he’d try to make small talk, his voice a little too bright, a little too loud, for the ungodly hour of dawn.
‘Couldn’t he just stop making noise for five minutes?’ Till grumbled to himself, a daily mantra.
Till remembered one particular morning, now permanently seared into his memory. He was half-asleep, doing his best impression of a deaf person, trying to pretend he didn’t hear Ivan’s cheerful clatter, when Ivan chirped, “Sleep well, Tilly?” Till’s teeth practically ground together.
Ivan had this infuriating knack for leaving cupboard doors gaping wide open, like they were staging a dramatic exit, or just as often, forgetting to rinse his mug. But the absolute worst offense? The toothbrush. Ivan’s bright blue one, sitting right there, practically touching Till’s perfectly organized red one. It was a minor thing, but it felt like a direct, trespass of his last shred of personal space. “Aish! Jinjja,” he’d silently seethe, biting back a much, much sharper word.
“Did you... finish with this?” Till asked one evening, holding up a dripping mug that was clearly not his.
“Oh! Sorry, Till. Guess I forgot. My bad!” Ivan offered, looking up from his book with a wide, blinding smile. He then, unbelievably, simply put the mug back down and wandered off to do something else, leaving Till holding the evidence.
Till just stared after him, a fresh, hot sensation of irritation bubbling up. It was always something with Ivan. Always.
But then, in ways he absolutely refused to acknowledge, Ivan’s presence started to become a thing. Like that one time with the dalgona coffee. Till couldn’t even wait for the stupid thing to froth, but Ivan, with his baffling patience, just kept whisking. And somehow, Till started to almost admit and, dare he say, tolerate Ivan’s ridiculously true concern and his kind acts that Till couldn’t quite dismiss.
He remembered the specific, sun-drenched afternoon in their cramped kitchen, the faint smell of stale disinfectant still clinging to the air despite Ivan’s best efforts. Till had been trying to beat the instant coffee into submission with a fork, a pathetic attempt at mimicking the viral trend he’d seen online. His arm ached, the foam was still watery, and his lip was already curled in exasperation.
“This is pointless,” he’d muttered, ready to just dump the whole mess down the sink. He could almost hear his mother’s disappointed sigh about wasted food.
Ivan, though, had simply stepped up beside him, a whisk that looked too clean to be real in hand. “Here,” he’d said, his voice with a softness that Till found hard to stomach, “you’re doing it wrong.” Without waiting for a response, he’d taken over the bowl, his black eyes focused with an almost absurd intensity.
His wrist moved in even, continuous rounds, precise and tireless. Till remembered leaning against the cold countertop, watching, unable to look away, despite himself. He’d expected Ivan to give up, to complain about the effort, but he just kept going.
“You’re going to break your wrist,” Till had remarked, trying to sound bored. “It’s just coffee.”
Ivan had merely hummed, his mouth curving slightly as the coffee mixture slowly, against all odds, thickened into a cloud-like consistency. “Patience,” he’d finally said, holding up the perfectly whipped foam, his smile widening, a dusting of sugar or something on his cheek. “It’s an art.”
Till had just grunted, grabbing the glass Ivan offered, the sweetness a shocking change to his bitter mood. “An art,” he’d mumbled, taking a sip. “Right. And I suppose I should applaud your domestic skills now?”
Ivan had laughed, a bright clear sound that filled the entirety of their rooms from wall to wall. “Only if you truly appreciate my efforts,” he’d countered, his eyes crinkling. “Though your annoyed expression is thanks enough.”
It was a strange, nearly comical moment, yet he found himself, against his better judgment, feeling something close to... not quite fondness, but certainly less annoyance.
He hadn’t actually experienced this way of being before; it felt as if his internal compass had spun wildly. Still, against his better judgment, he found himself sort of anticipating their pointless talks about books, music, and films. Even more surprising, a feeling resembling comfort, previously entirely foreign to his existence, began to grow whenever Ivan was inexplicably near. Great.
He’d start to notice small things. The soft scrape of Ivan’s pen on paper as he sketched at the dining table, a hum disappearing from the room where not a single cricket chirped. The faint, sweet smell of Ivan’s tea—Earl Grey, Till had absorbed against his will, drifting from the kitchen. Little details, things Till would have previously dismissed as irrelevant, now registered, unwelcome additions to his internal tally of observations.
One afternoon, Ivan, with his ridiculous, bottomless pit of optimism, had hauled in a small sickly-looking potted miniature basil plant.
“It just needs a little love!” he’d chirped, setting it on the sunniest windowsill. Till had just scoffed, ‘More things to eventually die,’ he’d thought, but found himself watching Ivan with focused effort prepare a new home for it, humming that ZICO song under his breath.
Weeks later, the plant, against all common sense and Till's expectations, began to sprout new leaves. Ivan would clap his hands, a sound that should have been annoying, and Till would just grunt, secretly finding the tiny green shoots less depressing than the news headlines.
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His morning ritual began with nursing bitter coffee while he dragged his mouse to open online job portals, a barren stretch of online listings for employment opportunities in a pandemic-stricken city. Every refresh of the page brought the same unpromising picture.
Sometimes, a tune would play from Ivan’s sturdy, older model Sennheisers, a classical piece Till usually scoffed at. Yet, he’d find himself unconsciously humming along later, an unwelcome melody playing in his head. He’d catch Ivan reading over his shoulder, a shadow falling over his book, and instead of snapping, he’d just... move, an almost imperceptible lean in.
Another time, Ivan had insisted they watch a cloyingly sweet K-Drama that had gone viral. Till had groaned, loudly. “Seriously? More manufactured angst?” But Ivan, undeterred, had simply started it. It was Crash Landing on You, a show Till had dismissed as pure melodrama.
Soon enough, Till found himself yelling at the screen about a character’s foolish decisions. Ivan, beside him, had just grinned, passing him a bowl of popcorn.
Till had just grunted, snatching a handful, pretending he wasn’t invested. Later, they’d ended up debating the ending for an hour, Till arguing logic, Ivan defending emotion, their usual back-and-forth.
“I mean, seriously?” Till scoffed, gesturing wildly at the now-frozen credits. “Gu Seung-joon deserved better. He made all the smart moves, finally gets a shot at happiness, and then, shot in a random chase? It’s emotionally manipulative. Logically, it’s garbage writing.” He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated, his brow furrowed.
Ivan just shook his head, a soft sigh escaping him. His eyes, fixed on the screen, seemed a little too bright. “But that’s the point, Till. That’s life. It’s tragic. It’s not always fair.” Till, still grumbling, reached over and snatched another handful of popcorn from Ivan’s bowl, his fingers brushing Ivan’s as he did.
“And Seo Dan’s grief, her love for him, that’s what makes it so powerful. It’s about the feeling, not the plot mechanics.” Ivan’s voice was low, earnest, his hands clasped over his knees as if bracing himself against Till’s harsh logic.
He remembered one rainy evening, the sky outside a flat, dull gray. Till had been trying to decipher a particularly dense passage in his copy of The Land, his brow creased in frustration. He’d sighed, loud enough to be heard. Ivan, from his spot across the room, had simply said, “The Land, right? The really long one about the Choi family?” Till had just grunted.
“Need a summary? Or just a distraction?” Ivan’s voice was light, offering a true chance to step away. Till had just talked then, against his usual habit, about the characters, the plot, even his vexations with the author.
Ivan listened, nodding, making brief, intelligent comments. No judgment, no demand for him to feel something. Just Ivan's focused, listening presence. Later, in the weirdly calm living space, Till's breath actually felt a little easier.
He’d notice Ivan’s laugh, a bright clear sound that resonated in the cramped unit, and found it... less irritating than it should be. The sight of Ivan’s overly bright smile when he finished a drawing, or successfully cooked a new dish began to lose its power to annoy.
That day, Ivan had just finished a really complex digital illustration. He leaned back from his tablet, stretching, and let out a proud chuckle, a sound that filled the cramped unit. Till, hunched over his own laptop, pretending to be utterly engrossed in data, couldn't help but hear it.
With a turn, Ivan faced Till. A broad beaming smile split his face. “Done!” he announced, eyes shining. “Looks good, doesn’t it?” He held up the tablet for Till to see. Clearly proud of his work, he prodded. “Go on, Tilly. You can admit it. It’s not terrible, is it?”
Till just grunted, giving the illustration a fast uninterested peek. It was (as expected) too good for his liking. He didn’t say anything, but inside, a typical grumble started. ‘The man’s practically radiating sunshine,’ he thought, ‘it’s exhausting.’ But the usual knot of irritation in his gut felt loose.
The smile, the laugh, they didn't really bother him anymore. Not like they used to, anyway. He just pretended they did.
Ivan wasn’t so much annoying as… simply there. Like an intrusive piece of furniture a person eventually stops tripping over, or a weed that just wouldn’t quit that a person somehow, against their will, starts to appreciate for its stubborn grip on the soil, defying all attempts to remove it.
It started subtly, like a bad habit forming. Till would leave his book open, just to see, and Ivan, predictably, wouldn't disturb it. He'd even catch himself subconsciously waiting for Ivan to finish his aggressively upbeat morning routine before daring to make his own coffee.
One evening, Ivan had been sketching, totally absorbed in whatever masterpiece he was creating. Till watched Ivan's fingers fly across the tablet, realizing this was how Ivan spent his days, crafting digital images for clients he'd never meet, a curious way to make a living.
Till, on the other hand, spent his own days clicking through job forums, the glowing screen of his laptop showing little but no new positions available or applications closed. He'd submit resumes into the void, fingers hovering over send.
‘Was anyone even hiring?’ he’d think, a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘Or are they just keeping busy, pretending? What’s the point of all this?’ The whole process felt like screaming into a pillow, a lot of effort, zero impact.
Till, without even thinking (which was probably the problem), had leaned over. “What’s that supposed to be?” he’d asked, his voice softer than he’d intended, which immediately made him cringe. Ivan had looked up, explained the drawing, and then, naturally, asked Till’s opinion on some obscure movie he’d just watched. And Till, for some reason, hadn’t argued. Hadn’t bristled.
He’d just talked. For a long while. And later, he actually felt his breath come a little easier in the weirdly calm atmosphere of the place.
Though he still remained unwilling to fully concede it, Till felt something subtly shifting, and utterly vexing, rearranging itself inside his walls, pieced together over years. Life in this city, now muted, utterly depressing, and somewhat threatening, was, little by little, becoming just a tiny bit more bearable. And Till absolutely hated that it was because Ivan was there.
The days Till spent clicking through job forums often ended with a defeated slump onto the sofa. Ivan, who missed nothing, occasionally glanced over.
“Still sending those resumes into the void?” Ivan had asked one afternoon, his voice carefully casual. Till just grunted, rubbing his temples. “My old university lab is hiring for a research assistant position. Remote work, mostly data analysis. Might be something you’d actually qualify for, given your SNU background. And you wouldn’t have to talk to too many people, if that helps.”
Till had just stared. An actual lead? From Ivan? He’d expected more pointless optimism, not concrete information. “Your lab?” he’d muttered, his brow furrowing. “Doing what, exactly?”
Ivan had simply shrugged, a casual lift of his shoulders. “Just... numbers. They’re always looking for someone who can decipher complex data. You’re good at that, right? Figured it couldn’t hurt to apply.” He’d even pulled up the job listing on his own tablet, sliding it over for Till to see. The whole thing felt suspicious.
Till had applied, of course. Not because Ivan told him to, but because, well, what else was he going to do? Scream into more pillows? The interview had been online, awkward and stilted, as all pandemic interviews were. He'd barely managed a civil tone.
Then, weeks later, an email landed in his inbox. ‘Offer Extended.’ Till had stared at the screen, his eyebrows lifting, mouth falling open just a bit, a feeling of disbelief and something that might have been relief coiling in his gut. A job. Remote. Meaning he didn’t have to face the miserable, empty city streets just yet. And it paid.
Till knew Ivan had already paid for the place, a whole year, Till vaguely remembered from some overheard phone call. That meant Till was essentially freeloading. He'd just have to find a job quickly so he could at least cover groceries, if Ivan didn't object. The thought of owing Ivan anything made his teeth ache, even if Ivan seemed completely oblivious to the concept of debts.
His first thought, much to his own irritation, was of his mother. He grabbed his phone, his thumb hovering over her contact. He knew he had to tell her, despite the expected flood of questions and counsel he didn’t ask for. And as he knew would happen, he’d have to explain about Ivan. He took a deep breath, braced himself, and hit call.
“Eomma,” he’d said, forcing a cheerful note into his voice that sounded too strained to be real even to his own ears. “I got a job.”
Her ear-splitting cry of joy nearly blew out his eardrum. “Oh, Till! I knew you could do it! When do you start? What is it? Do they give benefits? And where are you living? Still in that tiny place?”
Till winced, holding the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, still here,” he mumbled. Then, the dreaded moment arrived. “And, uhh... I have a roommate. Ivan Baek. From SNU.” He waited for the explosion.
There was a beat where the air went completely out of the phone line. “A roommate? Who is this Ivan? Is he a good boy? Is he from a good family? Does he know how to cook? You can barely boil water, you’ll starve! Is he messy? Does he leave his socks lying around? And send me a photo, Till-ah. I need to see his face. For... for his aura.”
The questions came like machine-gun fire.
Till pulled the phone away from his ear, a grimace twisting his face. He could practically see her, already planning his life, mapping out Ivan’s lineage, deciding if the man was suitable. The blur of her invasion, even from miles away, was impressive, if not terrifying.
“He’s fine, Eomma,” Till had cut in, exasperated. “He’s just... here. He’s good. Look, I gotta go, I just wanted to tell you about the job. Talk later, okay?” He hung up before she could ask about Ivan’s blood type. Mission accomplished, mostly.
That evening, as Ivan was humming ZICO’s Any Song, a tune that burrowed into Till’s brain while making his usual simple dinner, Till cleared his throat. “Hey,” he’d said, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. “I... got the job. That thing you mentioned.”
Ivan had turned, his eyes widening, a smile that reached his very eyes spreading across his face. “See? I told you something good would happen!” He’d even moved to clap Till on the shoulder, a gesture Till usually avoided, but this time, he merely tolerated it.
“Yeah, well,” Till grumbled, a gentle flush seeping through his chest, a feeling he quickly squashed. “So. I’m treating tonight. To celebrate. Since we can’t actually go anywhere, there’s a bottle of something vaguely alcoholic in the back of the cupboard. Top shelf.”
Ivan’s eyebrows had shot up, his mouth falling open just a fraction. “Huh? Till Lee? Offering to share his precious liquor? In a non-social setting? Now that’s a celebration. Even without a whole crowd or a thousand rounds of soju games. I’ll even bring out the good glasses.”
They’d sat on the sofa, nursing their drinks, the liquid’s bite somehow less harsh than the reality outside. Ivan, predictably, tried to make conversation, but Till mostly just listened, every so often grunting a reply. Still, the apartment didn’t feel as empty as it usually did. For the first time in a long time, Till felt a trace of something like satisfaction, a feeling he would absolutely deny if asked.
“So,” Till finally said, the word feeling oddly heavy in the brief break in conversation. He toyed with the rim of his glass, avoiding Ivan’s eyes. “Your family... they’re not in Busan, are they?” The question felt clumsy, a trespass onto private ground in Ivan’s overly bright world.
He’d never asked about them before. Didn’t care, of course. Just curious.
Ivan took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes fixed on the condensation on the glass. “Nah,” he replied, his voice soft and unconcerned, as if the topic held no more weight than the clouds outside. “No siblings, no parents I keep in touch with. Just me.” He looked up, his shoulders moving just a fraction. “Family’s a bit complicated, you see? Like a long, boring drama. Easier to just skip to the good parts.”
Till just stared, a cold coil forming in his gut. No siblings. No parents. Just like that? The casualness of it was almost worse than any dramatic outburst. A quick prick moved through Till's chest, a feeling he ignored.
‘So Ivan was also just… alone. How pathetic.’ But then, a flicker of something Till chose not to name, a hated glimmer of insight, entered his thoughts. It made Ivan, for a fleeting, uneasy moment, seem less like a Golden Retriever who always had too much bounce in his step and more like... Till, in a way. A way he definitely didn’t want to acknowledge.
Till had spent his entire existence convinced that every single relationship was just some kind of precisely placed trap of obligation, a give-and-take of favors and hidden obligations that left him uninspired. Every deal had its fine print, just like before. Nothing in this world, he truly believed, held any genuine purity or sincerity. It was exhausting, frankly.
It had been only a few months since Ivan staged his personal space invasion, and Till was still trying to get used to it. He found Ivan's easygoing nature utterly baffling, especially when Ivan would look at him with an affection that felt too open, too real. It made Till's skin crawl.
One evening, with only the distant city sounds reaching their ears, they were both pretending to read. Ivan looked up.
“Till,” he’d said, his voice sickeningly soft. “I’ve been thinking.” He paused, his gaze moving from Till’s book to the unbent envelope on the coffee table, then back to Till. “You know how you always try to pay your share, even when I tell you not to? How you only ever buy chili ramen, but secretly eye the kimchi flavor? And how you pretend you hate classical music, but I’ve caught you humming along?”
Till stared, his brow furrowing. ‘W — wait? What was this?!’
Ivan’s mouth curved, the corners of his eyes crinkling with an inward happiness. “I value all of that. All the little details that make you... you. I find myself... wanting to keep noticing them. Wanting to keep being here for all of them. I’m drawn to you, Tilly. To all of it.”
Till froze. The full impact of Ivan's truly baffling words settled over him, hitting him like ice water dumped down his back. He lowered his book slowly, his gaze narrowing, teal eyes drilling into Ivan's face, searching for a tell.
‘What’s the catch?’ his thoroughly unimpressed brain instantly screeched. ‘Only a few months, and already this? Is he serious? Or is this some kind of long con?’ He felt the old, blaring alarm bells of suspicion ringing so loudly he was surprised Ivan couldn’t hear them.
Ivan, of course, saw the immediate tightening in Till's expression, the sudden, impenetrable wall that Till pulled up. He actually hesitated, a moment of limbs held stiff, eyes avoiding contact, passing between them before he spoke again, his voice even softer now.
“Look,” he said, holding Till’s gaze with a gentleness Till absolutely didn’t understand. “You don’t have to say anything back. I just... I wanted you to know how I feel. And it doesn’t change a thing between us, okay? We can still be us.”
Till’s gaze hardened further, his teal eyes drilling into Ivan, seeking an answer. “You’re reading way too much into this, Ivan-ah,” he stated, his voice a low, offhand tone, as if dismissing a fly. “That’s probably just some fleeting attraction, or maybe you’re just thrilled to have a roommate who doesn’t hoard canned goods. It’s nowhere near deep feelings. Love’s a fairy tale for the easily fooled. We act for each other expecting something in return, always. Get real.”
Ivan’s brow actually furrowed, as if Till’s words made no sense to him, his eyes holding Till’s. “That isn’t true. I care for you deeply, and I don’t expect anything back.”
“Everyone wants something,” Till countered, rolling his eyes so hard he practically pulled a muscle. “You’re no different. You want me to finally admit I like your horrendous singing, don’t you?”
This lifelong, deeply ingrained distrust extended even to Ivan’s open, heartfelt feelings. Till saw it as nothing more than a brief obsession, like a child transfixed by the sparkle of a new shiny plaything that would inevitably be discarded.
He watched Ivan with a detached concern, as if observing someone utterly exposed, walking blindly towards perils unseen just beyond their naive sight. It was almost sad, really.
It was one afternoon that found them stuck in the dining area of their cozy, yet confining, home in this city. Sunlight, which was apparently supposed to be spun gold, merely pierced the thin fabric of the curtains, breaking into long, irritating bands of brightness that moved on the aged wooden table. From the open window, a perfectly clear view of Marine City’s overly impressive waterfront glittered, sparkling with sunlight on the bay.
Ivan’s brow actually furrowed, as if a complex puzzle had just been dropped in his lap, his eyes holding Till’s. “Sometimes,” Ivan began, his voice softer now, his gaze drifting toward the window and the city lights beyond, “I feel... strange about Busan. Like there’s a pull I can’t quite grasp.” He turned back to Till, his eyes revealing a fleeting uncertainty. “It’s a feeling I can’t control.”
“That’s just a momentary distraction,” Till countered, a sigh escaping him that sounded more like a deflating balloon. “You’re stuck here, bored. It’s not some grand mystery. You’re just looking for something to focus on.”
Ivan’s body went still, his lips pressing into a thin line, then a surprising lift at the corners of his mouth touched his face. “Thank you...”
Till stared back. “For what? For pointing out the obvious?”
Ivan’s gaze remained fixed. “For... for rejecting me only because you don’t believe in affection. Not because I’m disgusting. Not because of me.” His voice was barely more than a breath, but it carried a slow, easing breath. “You still think I’m a weirdo, I know. You still act like I’m a pain. But that’s fine. It’s better than the alternative. You didn’t flinch away from me.”
Words failed Till. He just sat there, listening. Of all the things Ivan should have been upset or angry about after a straight-up rejection, thank you was not among them. The clear gratitude, plain to see, in Ivan's eyes, simply for being rejected on philosophical grounds rather than for who he was, left Till speechless.
The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee, because Ivan insisted on making it, filled the air, mixing with the vaguely briny smell of the sea, probably just the lively shipping area's pollution, honestly. Ivan had just finished inhaling a plate of stir-fried noodles.
“This is actually… really good,” Till said, genuinely surprised, pushing his empty bowl forward. “Seriously. You cooked all this? What’s the catch?”
Ivan beamed, his black eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Just some leftovers, glad you like it. I thought maybe you could use a change from instant ramen.” He said it like he was doing Till a massive favor, which arguably, he was.
Till felt a strange, deeply unsettling sensation. This supposedly peaceful shared space, this easy give-and-take, was almost too much. Too normal. Too nice. He lowered his chopsticks slowly, his gaze narrowing, teal eyes fixed on Ivan.
“Ivan,” Till began, his voice low and devoid of warmth, “this isn’t working.”
Ivan, who had been about to take a sip of his tea, paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean, Till? Is something wrong?” He looked genuinely confused, which was almost fun to watch.
“Not after what you said,” Till clarified, gesturing vaguely between them like there was some giant, obvious elephant in the room. “I need to find another apartment. Immediately.”
Ivan’s expression pinched just a bit, but his gaze, as cool as a cucumber, held firm, like a sturdy rock refusing to acknowledge a tiny insignificant pebble. “Move? Now? Till, it’s really risky to move during a pandemic. It’s dangerous out there.” He sounded like a concerned parent.
“I know,” Till conceded, his gaze hardening. “But we can’t pretend nothing’s changed here, not after your ridiculous words earlier. I can’t just ignore that.”
Ivan’s gaze softened, holding Till’s. “Till,” he said, his voice soft as a spring breeze, seriously, who talked like that?—”I told you I didn’t expect a reply. And look at us. Until this moment, I’ve still acted the same, haven’t I? I’ve still made breakfast, tidied up. Nothing’s changed in how I treat you.” He paused, then added, “My love for you holds no expectation of return. I’ll patiently wait, until you’re sure it’s real.”
Till stared at him, a clear challenging question in his teal eyes. “Love? That’s just a bedtime story for the easily fooled. Humans always size things up, Ivan. Always. We act for others because we anticipate a return. It’s an absolute, undeniable rule of human nature. You’re just waiting for your reward, aren’t you?”
His expression didn’t change, but Ivan’s eyes, usually so open, lost a flicker of their usual light. He simply held Till’s gaze, a void that opened up there, so deep Till couldn’t grasp its bottom. Ivan said nothing. A nod that dropped, loaded with a silent concession, that twisted Till’s gut more than any argument could have.
The week that followed dragged, each day thicker than the last, marked by Ivan's changed behavior. His usual cheerful noise had vanished, replaced by an absence of sound Till found more noticeable than any shout. In front of an online bookstore, Till found himself with fingers hovering.
He clicked, then, a good armload of classic Korean literature, the kind Ivan had mentioned admiring, went into his cart. An afterthought had him browse for clothes. Ivan's wardrobe was, simply put, the same old stuff. One evening, the delivery arrived. Till’s chest felt tight with a strange, prickle of nerves as he presented the packages to Ivan.
Ivan’s eyes widened. One hand picked up a book, the other lightly touched the neatly folded shirt. “You,” he said, voice soft, “you really didn’t have to.” A small line creased his brow as he set the shirt down. “I just wear the same clothes if I like them. It’s no biggie, really.”
“Take them,” Till cut in, his voice harsher than he meant it to be. “Or I swear, I’m packing my bags and leaving.”
Holding Till’s gaze, Ivan paused. A soft whoosh of air escaped him. “You don’t need to feel guilty for rejecting me. You don’t need to bribe me with gifts. I meant what I said about not expecting anything back.”
“It’s not a bribe,” Till snapped, his voice tight. “It’s... common courtesy. People do things for people. There’s always a reason. A return. You don’t just give things without wanting something. Nobody does.”
Ivan’s eyes softened, his face relaxing into a soft, steady composure. “Maybe nobody you’ve known,” he murmured. “But not everyone sees the world as a ledger. Sometimes, it’s just kindness. For its own sake.”
Muscles bunching in his jaw, Till stared at him. “If you don’t take these,” he said, his voice low, “I’m leaving. Right now. Packing my bags, heading out. You want me gone? Fine. But take the damn gifts.” A flicker of pleading intensity in his eyes, he waited. Ivan, unmoving, just looked back, a shadow of pain in his gaze. Till’s shoulders slumped. He couldn’t deal with this.
Then, Till just turned, walking straight to his room, the door clicking shut behind him. The air felt like a dense mass, pressing down with all the words that died on their tongues hanging there.
When dawn broke, the apartment still felt like a cage, heavy with what hadn't been said. From beyond their unit's walls, the distant noise of ship horns and whatever other dock activity was happening reached them as a vague whisper, yet it did precisely nothing to disrupt the deep calm that felt too heavy to breathe in their cozy, lockdown-induced living space.
Ivan watched him, that same soft-edged worry in his black eyes. He followed Till's gaze for a moment, probably pretending to ponder the deep philosophical implications of seagulls, then turned back, his expression altering minutely, an alteration Till absolutely ignored.
“You talk about people so transactionally,” he observed gently, his voice low, like Till was some kind of fascinating, broken experiment. “As if everything has a hidden cost. Why do you think that?”
Till blew air out of his nose, his gaze sweeping the ceiling with weary expertise, as if Ivan had just uttered something only a gullible child would believe. “Humans always size things up,” he replied with thinly veiled cynicism, a slight lift of distaste appearing on his lips.
“We act for others because we anticipate a return. Always. It’s an absolute rule of human nature. Get used to it.” He took a slow deliberate sip of his tea, his eyes drifting out the window towards the boring hills surrounding the city, as if pondering life’s deepest, most miserable puzzles.
“Humans are easily misled,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low careful way of speaking, because sometimes one just had to explain the obvious. “They crave comfort and consideration to the point of blinding themselves to the reality that true affection doesn’t exist. They conjure up illusions in their minds and embrace the falsehood they label love. Like those lost in a false reverie, they refuse to see the bitter, obvious truth.”
“Why do you see it that way?” Ivan asked gently, his voice weighted with concern, much like an older brother trying to talk sense into someone clinging to a flawed idea. “What makes you so dead set that love is just made up?”
Till offered a grim smile, edged with the distinct sting of past disappointments he refused to elaborate on. “Experience taught me everything, life itself taught me people are inherently self-serving. Look around you, every relationship you see is a quid pro quo. Love is just a cover, plain and simple, for desire and ambition. Like a peacock showing off its showy feathers, they put on a show of devotion to get what they want. It’s pathetic, really.”
Ivan held his tongue for a moment, his eyes fixed intently on Till, probably attempting to pierce the impenetrable, icy barrier that held Till's spirit.
“I know you’ve been hurt. But don’t let your past taint your perception of connection. There’s still kindness in this world, still honesty. Don’t seal your heart,” he urged, his voice holding some fragile, unconvincing promise.
But Ivan's words just slid off Till, making no impression whatsoever. He held fast to his conviction, still perfectly content in the way cynicism had him comfortably boxed in for years. Like an impenetrable fortress, Till's wall of skepticism appeared inflexible, protecting him from anything he saw as weakness, including true affection. Because that would be the real disaster.
Amid the pandemic's grip that held them hostage in this place, a city where two such unlikely and polar-opposite individuals were caught by their differing views on relationships, no one could have imagined how they might actually co-exist.
Perhaps, much like Till's view of all relationships, an unsaid, deeply inconvenient agreement formed the basis of their shared living. Or maybe, without Till ever truly realizing it, and he'd deny it vehemently if asked, Ivan's habit of always being just a breath or a glance away was, little by little, beginning to erode his perfectly functional skeptical strongholds.
Countless tiny, distracting specks hung suspended in the golden haze of light, moving in unhurried, meandering paths through the window of Till and Ivan's postage-stamp-sized unit in Marine City.
The morning sun there had just decided to appear from behind the hills, its golden rays rudely poking into their space. Inside, the rich, bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, soon joined by the cloying, sugary aroma of some suspiciously warm sweet bread buns Ivan had just pulled from the oven.
The crinkle of the newspaper Till opened was, of course, immediately met by the distant scream of a siren. Its sound cut through the morning’s absence of typical city noise, the pandemic’s continued, suffocating grip, felt in every hurried, anxious sound from the miserable world beyond their walls.
Ivan, with a practiced hand at household chores, poured Till's coffee, then turned to the toast, apparently dedicated to preparing Till's breakfast. He smoothly applied raspberry jam onto crisp toast before placing it on the dark wooden dining table. It was almost like he enjoyed being a live-in chef.
“The news this morning reported another increase in cases,” Ivan announced, setting a steaming mug of coffee in front of Till. “It looks like we’ll have to stay put for a while.” His voice actually lost some firmness as his eyes scanned the report about a new, even more aggressive form of the virus. Finally, a hint of appropriate despair.
Till just gave a soft snort, sipping his coffee, his gaze settled on something far off beyond the windowpane. Through the glass, he watched the streets, once supposedly a hive of activity, now empty except for an occasional, lonely patrol car standing guard. A cold, miserable wind swept in from the sea, bringing with it the salty bite of the harbor and the forlorn cries of seagulls.
The pandemic had systematically drained the life from the once supposedly lively port city, leaving behind nothing but streets where the sound of a single step carried far and deserted spaces. A stillness that felt absolute, and entirely too heavy, settled over Busan. Till shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Never thought I’d actually feel this out of place here,” he mumbled, gazing at the vacant stretches. It made him feel oddly isolated from the entire world, like a particularly grumpy fish out of water. Even so, going through his usual, soul-crushing routine was the only thing that helped him keep it together.
Unlike Ivan, whose routine followed some bizarre breakfast first philosophy, Till’s morning routine started with a shower. He emerged from the bathroom, silver hair still damp, water droplets tracing paths that made his skin prickle across his forehead and dripping onto the cold tiled floor.
Without a single word. Ivan, clearly having nothing better to do than observe Till's pathetic existence, took a clean towel and, to Till's utter bewilderment, began to gently dry his hair.
The warmth of Ivan’s hands on his scalp sent a surprising, frankly unsettling, tingle starting at Till’s scalp, spreading downward. He fixed Ivan with a look of puzzled caution, the soft, Ivan-smelling scent of Ivan’s soap and shampoo now filling his senses. It was too much.
”What’s this all about?” Till asked, his voice edged with suspicion. “No need to baby me. I’m not a toddler.”
“Just making sure you don’t catch a cold,” Ivan replied with that same infuriatingly soft smile. “And really, isn’t it nicer to start the day with dry hair?” He said it like it was the most revolutionary concept.
Till let out a soft huff, yet he pulled back only slightly, a strange, pleasant feeling beginning to unfurl inside him that he absolutely did not know how to handle. He actually felt at ease with the surprising attention, a truly bizarre feeling he’d never experienced before. He retreated to the dining table, where the crisp toast and overly sweet raspberry jam somehow still managed to make his mouth water.
“You don’t have to sweat our supplies,” Ivan chirped, as if reading Till’s constantly grumbling mind. “I’ll go shopping later. Make a list of what you need.”
Till let his head drop a fraction, easing a tension he hadn't even realized he was holding. The mere thought of venturing out into the pandemic-stricken streets, which were probably crawling with new, aggressive viruses, made his skin crawl. Images of empty streets, perpetually crowded hospitals, and universally frightened faces flashed before his eyes. No thank you.
He felt significantly safer within the unit's confines, surrounded by solid walls and the comforting, if slightly dusty, smell of his old books. This held true even if it meant being stuck with Ivan, a man he consistently considered far too trusting and hopelessly naive.
When he finished eating, Till, operating on pure habit, rose to clear the dishes, the clatter of plates against the porcelain sink briefly shattered the dining room, where no other sounds had been. But Ivan, predictably, quickly stepped in.
“I’ll do the dishes, Tilly. You go and rest,” Ivan said, taking the plate right from Till’s hand.
Till watched, rooted to the spot, as Ivan went about clearing the table and washing the dishes. The mundane sound of running water and the scrape of the sponge against the plates actually created an odd sense of peace. ‘I should be doing something,’ Till knew, yet he didn’t stir. ‘But I feel… good. And confused. What kind of trick is this? Is he trying to poison me later?’
A few days after Till landed on Ivan’s sofa, he cleared his throat. “So,” he’d started, fiddling with his chopsticks. “The rent here. How do we...?”
Ivan had just waved a hand, a casual lift of his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it, Tilly. Already covered for the next year. Just focus on not starving.” Till had just grunted. Of course Ivan had already paid. It was almost too convenient.
It wasn't just the cooking, or the way Ivan didn't complain about Till's personal space invasion. Till knew Ivan had already paid for the apartment, a whole year upfront, from some old university grant money, or so Ivan had vaguely mentioned. Till wasn't contributing a single won to the rent, a fact that grated on his transactional sensibilities. Ivan never brought it up.
‘Annoying.’
Every movement, every minor kindness Till hadn't requested, felt like something from another planet to him. He was used to being on his own, handling every soul-crushing task himself. Ivan's thoughtful actions with no apparent strings attached just threw him off, making him feel both a little unsettled and, bewilderingly, curious.
“Why are you doing all this?” Till asked one day, as Ivan tidied the books on his desk. The comforting dry fragrance of old bindings and long-read stories drifted through the room, somehow easing Till’s perpetually frayed nerves. “I can take care of things myself. I’m not helpless.”
Ivan paused, his gaze resting gently on Till. “Because I care about you,” he replied with a simple honesty that left Till disoriented. “I want you to be all right.”
Till froze. Ivan’s words hit him hard. Such an honest, direct answer was completely, something Till hadn’t braced for. He’d always believed every single human action stemmed from pure, unadulterated self-interest. But Ivan, with all his naive, open way of being, was systematically poking massive, inconvenient holes in the framework of belief Till had spent years building.
He fixed Ivan with an unreadable look in his teal eyes, hoping to convey his profound disbelief. “You’re a fool,” he finally hissed, a tremor that hinted at something deeper in his voice. “You’re so easily taken in by the ridiculous idea of affection. But true affection isn’t real. It’s a myth for gullible children.”
Ivan simply smiled, as if Till’s cutting words had bounced right off him by Till’s razor-sharp words. He actually stepped closer, his black eyes radiating a comfort Till didn’t want. “Perhaps I am a fool,” he said quietly, “But I’d rather be a fool and believe in affection than a cynic who lives bound by his own dark view of the world.”
Ivan’s words roused a feeling in Till, something he wished he could simply shake off. He stood perfectly still, without a reply. Deep inside, a question that nagged at him with surprising force started to form, chipping away at his long-held convictions.
Could he have been mistaken all this time? Could true affection possibly exist? And if so, how much trouble was that going to cause?
The story continues—
