Chapter 9

Till fits the bill. That's all it is.

It also just so happens that they're step-brothers.

And Ivan is into that, apparently.

And Till is decidedly not into that shit.

Till is normal.

Till is not normal.

He realizes this somewhere between third and fourth period when he imagines swirling his tongue around Ivan's cockhead, and it's all but confirmed by eighth when he has ceramics with Ivan.

"Why are your eyelashes so fucking long?" Till blurts, then goes bright red and ducks his head before Ivan can see. "Don't answer that. I don't care."

Ivan is currently attempting to make a cup with the clay Till wedged. It looks more like a bowl, but the art teacher praises him nonetheless.

Pretty privilege, Till thinks.

Genetics, suppose. Ivan retorts.

His sinod tondue s sickne ou as he locuses on creatind a handle. and the son Din flesh is warped underneath his snaggletooth. He looks like a dog. It's fucking disgusting.

Till wants to taste him.

"What do you think of it so far, Till?"

Till stares at the bowl-cup. Ivan looks so earnest, and the petty, mean response Till was cooking up dies on his tongue.

"I think you might pass." The clay handle is wilting downward. "Maybe."

Ivan frowns."I imagined getting my first D in college. Do you think I should try and make something more abstract? It might be harder to critique."

Pfft. Ivan's 4.5 GPA, ruined because he's so shit at art.

The thought almost cheers Till up.

Almost.

"It's not a fucking painting, Ivan. You can't make it expressionistic."

"Three more, Till," drones the art teacher from her desk.

Till can't even be bothered with her right now. He's already down to three swears, and they still have thirty minutes left. This isn't looking good for him.

"Using cubism on a physical medium sounds plausible to me," Ivan says."Couldn't I just make a square cup?"

"You're so fucking stupid," Till tells him honestly."That's not what cubism means."

Ivan is already shaping his clay to have four sides."I was under the assumption that abstract art is up to interpretation."

"Oh yeah?" Till is supposed to be working on his project too, but he's never had a problem getting an A in any art class, so he's not worried."And what is a square cup supposed to represent? Other than being a fucking nightmare every time someone tries to drink out of it?"

Till can see it now—Ivan will give the cup to Io like a proud kid asking for his crayon drawing to be hung up on the fridge. Io will do a valiant attempt to hide the raising of her eyebrows before she says something like, oh, Ivan, you shouldn't have. That's so sweet. I love it.

And then she'll try using it and make a mess, and Till will be laughing his ass off at them both.

"You're overthinking it, Till." Ivan's deft hands shape the clay into something that resembles a lopsided prism."Sometimes art exists simply to make people feel something. In your case, the absurdity of my square cup evokes anger and envy."

"You're so full of shit," Till mutters, rolling his eyes.

Just his luck to be stuck in an art class with Ivan.

His own clay is sitting untouched in front of him, but he doesn't need to rush. He could make something in ten minutes and still ace this stupid assignment. Watching Ivan struggle is way more entertaining. It's such a rarity. Usually, it's the other way around, so sue Till for wanting to imprint this into his memory.

Ivan finally spares him a glance."You're awfully critical for someone who hasn't started his project yet."

Till huffs and leans back in his chair. He wore arm warmers today—classy, simple black, unlike that poser emo twink from the porno—and he'd really rather not get clay on them."Unlike you, I don't need to brute force my way into mediocrity."

Ivan laughs."Your algebra grade would beg to differ, but I'll let it go for now."

Till opens his mouth to deliver a very clever quip that would shut Ivan right up, something that's a true testament to his intelligence—

—when he realizes that Ivan has a smear of clay over his eyebrow.

The world abruptly narrows down to the two of them, and Till's eyes are pinned to the sight.

In the span of a second, Till has opened his mouth to wet the pad of his thumb with saliva.

He reaches across the table and grabs Ivan's face, squishing his cheeks together between his forefinger and thumb.

Ivan's eyes are so wide, darting to Till's finger as he brings it to Ivan's eyebrow and wipes the smear of clay away.

Ivan's smile is frozen on his face. There's a wet streak of Till's saliva on his skin, glistening in the fluorescent light.

Then, reality comes crashing back.

Till blinks when he realizes what he's done.

Ivan hasn't taken a breath in a full minute.

There are multiple people staring, which Till can't really fault them for. Step-brothers don't lick their fingers and lovingly wipe their saliva over each other's faces.

Well, they do in porn. Maybe. Till's not an expert.

Ivan is.

In ceramics class, it's fucking weird. That's what Till is trying to say.

"T-There," Till wheezes.

He needs to do something normal.

So, he pats Ivan's head in an extremely lame way, like he's a dog."All clean."

Till can physically feel the blood rushing to his face, making him flush a deep, rosy red.

His ears are burning.

Across the room, Sena's mouth is hanging open.

Till is so dizzy, he thinks he might faint.

"N-Nothing like a pair of siblings bonding in ceramics class, right?" Till asks Ivan loudly, mostly for show.

It doesn't occur to him that he's making things infinitely worse, because Till has entered crisis mode.

He tends to lose his cool when he's flustered.

He can admit that.

Ivan is great at handling situations like these.

He'll take the bone Till threw at him and say something suave and cool, and no one will be talking about this tomorrow.

The rumor mill will target someone else. Like that guy who eats pizza with soy sauce during C lunch.

Or maybe the creepy librarian.

Unfortunately, Ivan.exe has stopped working.

Ivan stares at Till like he's buffering.

Thousand-yard gaze.

There's a critical system failure happening, Till is sure of it.

He always knew Ivan was a robot in disguise. It would explain so much—

"Thank you, Till," Ivan says, clearly on autopilot."I'm grateful for your saliva."

Is Ivan fucking serious right now?

He's grateful for Till's saliva?

Everyone is staring, and that's all he could manage?

Like Till just performed a noble, selfless act instead of the most deranged thing this art room has probably ever seen?

Minus the students who fucked on this very table during the pep rally last week.

The class is dead silent, save for the hum of the overhead lights.

Even the art teacher is looking over her glasses at them.

Funny. She's usually so unimpressed.

"That was very helpful," Ivan tries again.

Till, meanwhile, is on the verge of passing out.

He's sweating a lot. Vision swimming with embarrassment."Right. You're welcome. T-That's what family is for. To, uh, clean each other's faces when there's... stuff." Till winces."Clay stuff. Not other stuff."

The picture Till has just painted isn't helpful.

It puts to mind the image of Ivan jerking his cock over Till and spilling a load all over his face with a soft groan.

Creamy and warm semen sticking to Till's eyelashes, clumping them together.

Dripping down his cheeks to his pink lips, as Ivan milks the last few spurts from his cock.

Making sure every last drop lands on Till's skin.