Till cried often, and never apologized for it.

Tears came easily—over good food, good music, a line in a movie that hit a little too close. When the sky looked a certain way at sunset. When someone was unexpectedly kind. Emotions lived close to the surface in him, and he let them come. Always had.

People called it dramatic. Overwhelming. Weak. Till called it real.

Ivan never called it anything. He just accepted it, quietly, the way he accepted the rain or the sound of Till’s laugh—without needing to explain it.

Ivan, who almost never cried. Who only teared up when something reached too deep—when love slipped past all his walls. It made Till ache, how rare those moments were. But it made him hold them gently when they came.

They balanced each other in a strange, almost accidental way. Till felt everything at once; Ivan sometimes needed reminding it was okay to feel at all.

Till cried the first time Ivan made him pancakes, slightly burnt and too sweet. He cried during slow movies in Ivan’s basement, hand tucked in Ivan’s hoodie sleeve. He cried when Ivan found his favorite candy after a hard week, like it was nothing—but it was everything.

Ivan never made fun of it. Never told him to stop. He’d just touch his wrist or pull him in close, grounding Till without a word.

And on the rare nights Ivan did cry—quiet, shaking, overwhelmed by love he didn’t know how to hold—Till didn’t say anything. He just stayed, arms around him, soft and steady.

Because some people cried when they felt too much. And some only cried when they finally felt safe.