Crack!

There goes Ivan's phone, thrown too roughly off the bed after cancelling his photoshoot. His manager's shouting rings like a squeaky door in his blocked ears, even after hanging up.

Ivan buries himself under the quilts. To say he felt awful was an understatement. Ivan was rarely, if not ever, sick. He was the prime image of beauty and health, envied by all. And now, he is a leaking faucet of snot, phlegm and sweat, his hair practically an oil goldmine. Even stretching felt like a chore, pain shooting up his limbs. He couldn't walk- google said it was something called myositis? Which is usually only found in children, but given his lack of medical history, I guess it makes sense. And don't even mention his blaring sinus headache. His head was about to explode. Ivan can already image his blood and snot splattered all over his penthouse walls. Every breath was forced, because no sane person would willingly live on through this condition, surely.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

... Ivan was so sick, he totally forgot he had multiple phones.

He stirred out of the covers, the air hitting his face with the same force of a blizzard. (Maybe hiding under the feather quilts with a fever wasn't a good idea). He absentmindedly brings the phone up to his cheek.

"I told you, I really can't-"

"Ivan! Are you still up for- Woahhhhh. You sound awful. What happened?!"

Ivan's bestfriend, Mizi, answered. Not his manager. This was his personal phone. Stupid. Ivan's mouth opened, but only a scraping, unintelligible sound slipped out. How humiliating.

"Gasp! You're SICK! Ivan, you're never sick! Ah, don't worry. I'm sending help right away-"

And that was it before she hung up. Great. Now he was gonna have a concerned, pink lesbian hovering around him all day. Barely a minute later, the door to his apartment is kicked in, shattering splinters hitting the floor. Who would-?

"Mizi? You have a key. What-?" Ivan (pathetically) tries to call out with a voice as groggy as a clogged drain, and hoarse as his hair after two cans of hairspray. He was about to call out to the intruder again until his phone flashed with another notification.

'You'll thank me later! ;)'

Shit...

A dash of silver and black rushes into the room. "Ivan! What the fuck?! Why didn't I get a call?! Dickhead!" the man exclaims rushing to Ivan's bedside to kick the mattress with his booted foot.

This crazed, emo, almost homeless looking man was Till, his childhood best friend, and more importantly, crush. Well- if you could call it that. Ivan has wanted him from the very beginning. Obsessively and weirdly so. Till is quite often creeped out, and yet, still never left him. Ivan assumes it's because he doesn't have most other people (<-- that's the insecurities and denial talking because a man like Ivan doesn't deserve love. (<-- also the trauma and insecurities)).

Usually, Ivan would be elated to see him. However, last time they met, there was a... tension between them. And Till ran off. Ivan assumed he had finally ruined it all. Finally set him off and ruined the one good thing in his plain life.

"Till...? But Mizi-" Ivan croaks, squinting his puffy eyes in case this flu had now set off delirium.

"Sent me! And I'm damn lucky she did!" he huffs, pouting like a grumpy cat as he crosses his arms. "You're so stupid, you-" Till breaks himself off as Ivan breaks into a coughing fit.