Before anything soft existed between them, Ivan and Till fought.

It wasn’t friendly sparring or harmless shoving. It was fists and fury, bruised ribs and bloodied lips. Ivan, the muscular jock with broad shoulders and a short fuse, usually did more damage—he was stronger, faster, and when angry, impossible to slow down.

Till didn’t care.

Lean and sharp like broken glass, Till never backed down. He threw himself into every fight with reckless energy, more defiant than he was strong. He spat blood and smirked through it, like losing still meant winning if he didn’t flinch.

They didn’t know why they kept doing it. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the way they saw too much of themselves in each other. Or maybe it was that neither of them knew how to talk about the strange electricity between them. So they fought. Again and again.

The last time was worse than usual. Ivan had pinned Till hard against the locker cages behind the gym, fists clenched, teeth grit. Till had spit in his face before Ivan shoved him to the ground, knuckles slamming against Till’s jaw with more force than he intended.

When it was over, Till lay still for a moment, chest heaving, blood at the corner of his mouth. Ivan stood over him, hands trembling—not with rage anymore, but something colder. Regret.

He didn’t go to practice that day. Instead, he wandered to the edge of the soccer field where little wildflowers grew, untouched and quiet. His knuckles ached, but his chest ached worse. He sat in the grass, fingers clumsily weaving flowers together—daisies, clover, a few dandelions. It was stupid. But he kept going.

He found Till an hour later, sitting on the back steps of the school, hunched and smoking, one eye starting to swell.

Ivan sat beside him, silent. For a while, neither said anything. Then, without meeting Till’s eyes, he held out the flower crown.

“I shouldn’t have hit you that hard,” Ivan muttered.

Till looked at the crown, then at Ivan—brow arched, suspicious. But he took it.

Till didn’t say anything. He just placed the crooked little crown on his head and leaned back against the step, wincing slightly but not moving away.

They sat there as the sun dipped low. No punches. No yelling. Just a quiet that felt heavier than their fights ever had.