Ivan hadn’t expected it to go so wrong. The post-game dinner had been meant to celebrate—a good meal, his teammates in high spirits, and Till beside him, quiet but close. It was loud, all swagger and shouting, the kind of chaos Ivan had always thrived in. He kept an arm slung around Till’s chair, like that would be enough to make him feel included. But it hadn’t been.

Till didn’t match the room. His faded Misfits shirt, chipped black nails, and soft teal hair made him stand out among jerseys and varsity jackets. Ivan had thought bringing him would be a gesture, proof that Till mattered to him. Instead, it had made Till a target.

The joke from one of the guys was lazy and cutting, the kind that didn’t even sound like a joke. Something about eyeliner and “looking like a wet cat.” Ivan laughed without thinking—too fast, too loud. Then, without even looking at Till, he muttered, “Why are you so fucking delicate?”

The look Till gave him wasn’t angry. Just tired. Hollow.

He left quietly, and Ivan didn’t follow right away. That was his second mistake.

Now, thirty minutes later, the bathroom was dim and warm with leftover steam. Ivan sat on the tile floor beside the tub, a tray resting beside him—black coffee, vinegar chips, and Till’s favorite sour candies. Till lay mostly still in the bath, legs curled slightly, teal hair plastered to his cheek. His face was hard to read, but Ivan could see it in the set of his mouth—he was hurt. Still retreating.

Ivan exhaled, slow. “I was an idiot,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I thought… if I laughed with them, they’d think I was cool for dating you. I didn’t realize I was choosing them over you.”

Till didn’t speak. But he took the coffee, his fingers brushing Ivan’s. That touch was enough to make Ivan stay right where he was.

He reached out carefully, brushing a wet strand of hair from Till’s face. “I’m sorry. Really. I shouldn’t have let them treat you like that. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have joined in.”