Chapter 4

"I did." Ivan's eyes are bright, almost manic. "They were such a mess. You were backed up, weren't you? You should let loose more often. As your older brother, I can recommend a few tissue brands, but you really shouldn't make a habit of cleaning up your ejaculate with your underwear."

Till releases him with a disgusted grunt. Ivan falls back into his chair, and Till pinches the bridge of his nose while he wrestles with his temper. Io would be so disappointed if they had a real fight again – they haven't beaten each other bloody in almost two years. It'd make her so sad, especially since Till always gets his ass kicked.

"How much do you want?" Till asks eventually.

Ivan tilts his head. "For the tissues? For you, the first box is free."

"Ivan," Till says. Deep breaths. He can be civil. It doesn't help that Ivan's room smells like him, the crisp scent of clean soap and something distinctly Ivan. "Enough. I'm being serious. How much? Two hundred, three hundred?"

"I think you're vastly overestimating the cost of a tissue box, Till."

"Stop! You know what I'm talking about! The – The fucking pictures you took –"

"Why would I take pictures of your underwear," Ivan asks, worded more like a statement. He looks genuinely puzzled.

Till pauses. Bites his lip, teeth digging into the plush pink flesh. Distracted as he is, he doesn't see Ivan's loser eyes staring at his mouth. "You didn't... You really aren't planning on anything?"

"How would that even work, Till?" Ivan asks, raising his eyebrows. "I send a picture of your dirty underwear to my group chat to humiliate you?"

"S-Something like that," Till replies, still gnawing on his bottom lip. Mizi is in that group chat. All of the popular kids are.

"And provided that I don't get called gay, which is very unlikely, I enjoy the sick satisfaction of bullying my younger brother in a weird and perverse way for absolutely no personal gain?" Ivan continues slowly, like he really is just trying to get his facts straight. "Is that right?"

"When you say it like that..." Till mumbles, blushing so hard he can feel the tips of his ears burning. Ivan is weird, but in retrospect, he's not that much of a freak. Hopefully. It's always hopefully with him, because Ivan's mind works in mysterious and diseased ways.

Ivan has already turned back to his laptop. Some sort of AP literature assignment, Till thinks. "So, you're aware how ridiculous you sound right now. I'm glad we had this conversation."

"You're up to something," Till accuses.

"Yes. It's called homework." Ivan is typing something up, entirely focused on his screen. "You should try it sometime."

"I don't need homework. I'm going to be a famous guitarist. I'll start my own band and have millions of raving fans, and you'll be stuck with a nine to five."

"You're so cute," Ivan says abruptly. He's resting his chin in his palm, elbow placed on the desk, while he looks up at Till and smiles his snaggletooth smile. It's a good thing he never aims this smile at anyone else – except for Io – because a girl would probably faint if she saw Ivan like this.

"F-Fuck you," Till replies instinctively. He realizes he doesn't have to be in here, so he hurries to leave. "I'm leaving," he says, just to make it clear.

Ivan is back to typing. "See you at dinner, Till. I'll help you fold your laundry later."

Ivan doesn't bring it up again. Till is suspicious, but he also wants to put this whole thing behind him, so he lets it slide. For now.

Currently, it's Friday night. Till is freezing his ass off in the stands with Io. She always forces him to come to Ivan's games – this one is so important to him, Till, it's the playoffs, he'll play so much better with you there – and now Till's stuck here, blocked in by the screaming crowd.

Io offered to buy him nachos, but concession stand food is fucking disgusting, so Till would rather starve. He's bundled up in a scarf and hat, but he still can't feel his fingers or toes. He doesn't know how the football team walks around in only their uniforms. Fucking freaks.

It's a close game. Io gets up at halftime to use the restroom and buy them both a hot chocolate, leaving Till to weather the marching band's performance alone. He's one of the only people left in the bleachers, probably doing a great impression of a lonely, cold penguin stranded on its own.

He scans the sidelines. Ivan is also one of the few remaining players on the field, the rest having entered the locker room to get warmed up. The coach won't be happy to have his halftime pep talk without the star quarterback present, but that's Ivan's problem, not Till's.

Somehow, Ivan must feel Till's gaze, because he sharply looks up. His helmet is off, and his black, inky hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat. A girl on the field playing her clarinet looks like she's seconds away from passing out at the sight.

"Ugh," Till says, with feeling.

Ivan lingers by the fence separating the track from the field, and Till realizes that Ivan is waiting for him to approach. Ivan's so pathetic. Like a sad, kicked puppy waiting at the door for his owner. Such a loser. He should be rallying with his team. And here he is, waiting just in case Till will feel sorry enough to talk to him.

Till's feet move on their own, he swears. He gets up and walks down the bleachers to see what Ivan wants, but he doesn't make it more than a few steps before a cheerleader approaches Ivan, beaming.

A stab of annoyance very briefly crosses Ivan's features, but it's gone in a flash. No one would have noticed except Till. He's got that slimy smile, that thick coating of princely polish. It works like a charm every time.

Till figures he may as well keep walking. Once he's in earshot, he hears the cheerleader saying over the marching band, "We're having a party at my place tonight after the game. Lots of alcohol. My parents won't be home all weekend."

Till frowns. Ivan never goes out on Friday nights. Those are game nights with Io. They play video games and watch movies together. If Till is feeling especially generous, he'll allow a game or two of Monopoly. Possibly scrabble, but Ivan always wins, so it's never much fun.

Ivan tucks his helmet under his arm, holding it against his side. "I don't drink."

"Oh." The cheerleader looks briefly crushed. "But you can still come, can't you? No one will pressure you. Oh! And there's going to be weed and ecstasy too –"

"He doesn't want to go," Till interrupts, leaning against the fence like a proper delinquent. "You should take a hint."

The cheerleader's eyebrows raise, and she slowly turns to Till. "Oh, you. The guy Mizi rejected."

Till snorts. "Yeah. I'm eyeliner guy, emo guy, the guy Mizi rejected. Take your pick." He doesn't want to see what kind of expression Ivan is making, but it won't be the first time Till's foul temper has landed Ivan into trouble, and it won't be the last. "Doesn't change the fact that Ivan's not going to your stupid basement party."

The cheerleader laughs incredulously. "You're such a loser. Do you know that?"

"Better than spreading my legs for half the football team just so people'll like me," Till counters.

Ivan is suspiciously quiet, which is weird. Usually, he smooths things over whenever their worlds clash. Till can feel Ivan's gaze boring into the side of his head, but he doesn't pay him much mind.

The cheerleader's smile turns mean. "Aw, you'd probably like that, wouldn't you?"

"Does it itch?" Till asks suddenly, picking at his chipped nail polish. "All the STDs, I mean. Are you going for the full collection?"