#laaaate

Note: I don't know much about the school system in other countries, so I'm going with what I was used to see during my high school years. I hope it doesn't end up clashing too much with other people's idea of high school.

Note2: English is not my native language, so regardless of research and editing, there may be some errors I’m unable to detect. 

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It's Friday afternoon, near the end of the Algebra class, but more importantly, it's the end of the semester. The group is only a few ticks of the clock away from winter break. The only sounds in the classroom come from numb-handed students scribbling on their notebooks, and the mellow humming of the one sitting at the old desk in the front corner.

They are writing a final essay about the content reviewed throughout the semester, what they learned, why it's important, why they liked it, and things like that. Alternatively, they could write a whole manifesto of hate to the teacher, to algebra, or the world in general, if they sowanted. The only things the teacher asked for was eight pages of text, and finished within the hundred minutes of class they had on Fridays, as designated by the group's schedule.

Raivis, sitting in the middle of the front row, looks up at the clock over the whiteboard, a drop of sweat runs down his forehead. He relaxes the grip on his pencil, cue the feel of pins and needles as he stretches his fingers.

"Five minutes," he mutters.

The teacher, seating on his desk in silence, stops humming, along with his calculation of the student's final grades.

"Five minutes!?" A voice echoes from across the room.

A collective gasp and muffled muttering fill the teacher's ears.

Raivis' sight is blocked by a towering figure standing in front of his desk. The figure leans closer, revealing the smiling face of the teacher, Ivan Braginsky.

"Are you done, Mr. Raivis?"

Chills run down the spine of the small student.

"I ju-just... two more left."

Mr. Braginsky kept smiling. He gently places a hand on Raivis' head, and looks him in the eyes.

"The clock doesn't care you're staring at it. Mind your own work, before time runs out, yes?"

Raivis bites his lower lip from the inside, and remains silent. He resumes writing his paper without looking up at the teacher again. Pleased, Mr. Braginsky pats his head and goes on to walk around the classroom, nonchalantly. He happily strokes his red and pink scarf as he walks, the part wrapped around his neck. Not one of Raivis' classmates dare turn their heads towards the teacher.

"Remember this is an optional task you can do, if you want (or need) extra points. Because I don't want failing students. This is my Christmas gift for you. That's why I will take no less than 10 pages of text, as a sign of your appreciation, yes?".

The glasses of the guy sitting left to Raivis fall off his face and on his notebook.

"You said nine!" Says, Toris, who sat in the right corner of the middle row.

"Oh, is that how you say 'eleven' in your native language?" Mr. Braginsky chuckles.

Everyone groans at Toris.

Mr. Braginsky takes the empty seat in the middle of the room, right among his students. He begins talking outloud, tapping his fingers on the desk. No one was sure if he was doing it to distract them away from the last precious minutes they had left or not. He could be testing their ability to focus, to work under pressure, he could just want to ruin their lives (as every teenager thinks about any teacher, ever). They were all too familiar with Mr. Braginsky's subtle "tests" of character. Although they share the sentiment expessed by Mr. Braginsky, they do their best to tune out his voice.

"Uff, it's getting suffocated here." He pulls on his scarf with two fingers. "Who though repurposing a storage room as a classroom was a good idea? Greedy people, trying to save money instead of making more buildings. No wonder you guys call it the 'the Rat Trap', huh?"

A rat trap indeed. Located, next to the chemistry lab, the two rooms were built together in a one-story building, separate but next to the main building for classrooms which blocked whatever sunlight could have gotten through. Thus the room tends to be low, yet suffocating at times. There was barely enough space for fifteen people, and had four 30cm x 30 cm stuck-closed windows on upper walls.  

"And the other teachers said 'You should be fine, you have the smallest group'. I'm sure in the next semester, the room distribution will be a total bloodbath. Mr. Jones will fight for the same room I choose, I bet. Regardless I'll make sure we get a better place for us this spring... Yeah, I will be your teacher next year too, hehe." He continues rambling.

The echoes of the ringing bell penetrate the walls of the Rat Trap. As soon as they hear it, most people put their pencils down and start packing their belongings. Some people sight in relief, others from exhaustion. Others shake their hands in the air to relieve the numbness and someone in the back corner starts crying. Meanwhile, Mr. Braginsky gets up and returns to his desk, without sitting down.

"Time's up, turn in your papers. Leave them on my desk here. I'll have them graded by Monday, and I'll send the final grades to you all via e-mail in the evening of the same day."

No matter what face the kids are making at him, with a fatherly smile Mr. Braginsky wishes merry Christmas to each one of them as they leave. One by one, the youths place their essays on the desk, not before stapling the pages together with the teacher's stapler, as they usually did. He put it there for the students after all.

"Brother," mutters Natalya, as she stands in front of Mr. Braginsky, adjusting her white ribbon. "Thank you for your hard work."

She hands a thick bundle of pages to Mr. Braginsky. With a gesture, she insists on him receiving it with his hands, instead of leaving in on the desk. He raises an eyebrow.

"Natalya? You don't need extra points at all. You could have gone home already."

"I wrote you a letter. I don't want you to read anyone else's paper first, it must be that one, okay?"

"Merry Christmas?" Says Mr. Braginsky, patting her sister on the shoulder as she turns to leave.

And so as the teacher begins to pack his belongings too, he notices a girl with pink flowers adorning her head, sitting at the bottom left corner. It is Mei, the youngest sister of Mr. Wang, who also teaches algebra. Hoever she chose not to have a relative as her teacher.

Mr. Braginsky gives her a puzzled look and approaches her. Mei seems to be focused on her notebook, moving her pencil with meticulous dedication. A whole two minutes have passed. By the time Mei raises her head, Mr. Braginsky is sitting next to her, leaning on the desk as he stares at her work with clenched teeth, hidden by a lips-shut smile.

"Don't your eyes get tired of drawing in a place with such bad lighting?"

Mei jumps on her seat and slams her hands on the notebook.

"Mr. B.!" Mei she raises the corners of her mouth in a dubiously successful attempt to sound calm. "You're still here?"

"I am the one locking the classroom door today."

"I didn't mean to make you wait, Mr. B., I'll go home right away."

"Did you take on the final task?" He says, fingers fidgetting, focusing on Mei's small black spot near her chin, probably a pencil graphite stain.

"My grade is fine, as you told me, so I didn't write anything".

"Is it too cold outside or something? Why didn't you leave early, like your friend Lien? Maybe you like my class that much?"

Mei looks down, without moving her hands off the notebook. Several seconds of silence ensue.

"Alright, let me see it."

Mei's eyes widen. Her hands press even more on the notebook.

"But it's nothing," she stutters,

"Yes, so let me see it."

"But..."

Mei sighs, her face turns red and quietly slides her graphite-stained palms away from her work, revealing the semi-realistic unfinished image of two men, suspiciously similar to Mr. Braginsky and Mr. Jones, engaging in what looked like "adult activities". Mr. Braginsky slowly extends his arm to grab the notebook, looking Mei in the eye as if to ask for permission to take it. Mei remains silent.  Mr. Braginsky then proceeds to inspect the drawing, now on his hands.

"I have to questions, Miss Wang."

An imaginary knot forms in her stomach. She closes her eyes and folds her arms around her abdomen, anticipating the scariest scolding of her life as if she was preparing to take a fist to the gut. And so she nods in silence.

"Number one: Is that Mr. Jones, tying me up with the candy cane-pattern scarf I got from my grandma?" He inquires, pointing at the goofy scarf he's wearing.

Mei nods again.

"Number two: Did you draw my nose smaller on purpose?"

Mei is unable to hold back her nervousness any longer.

"Mr. B. please the don't tell my brother about this, please don't show it to him! I'm really sorry, I'll accept my punishment but please don't-"

"Shhh Shhh...  Can I keep it?" He interrupted.

"Eh?" Mei stopped cold. "Do you... actually like it?" She stuttered.

"Well, no, but I can't let you keep it, much less actually finish it."

"I'm really sorry."

Mr. Braginsky chuckled behind his hand.

"Making a fuzz about this would be a waste of time, right? Just go home and don't draw these things at school. That's my Christmas gift for you, what do you say?"

Mei placed her hand on her chest.

"So, my Christmas gift for you would be letting you keep it?"

Mr. Braginsky chokes on his own breath.

"The gift is not drawing these things at school anymore. Now go, shoo shoo." Mr. Braginsky gestures, still smiling.

"Thank you, thank you so much! Merry Christmas, Mr. B.!" Mei exclaimed. She masterfully ripped the drawing from the notebook without damaging it, handed it back to Mr. Braginsky and hurried to pack everything. She then runs away from the Rat Trap more happy than scared.

Mr. Braginsky is still in the desk next to where Mei was, staring at the confiscated drawing, with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. The rythmic tapping of his fingers echo across the room.  Soon the image blurs as his minds simply wanders off.

"But why with Mr. Jones?" He thinks out loud.

It wasn't that Mr. Jones was a man, just like himself. It was that wether in public or in private, they were seldom "nice" to one another, if ever at all. How did so many kids get the idea that they could "love" each other? He didn't understand. Did Mr. Jones say something he was not aware of? Did they do it as a form of mockery? Could it be they noticed something?

"Because I'm the best teacher ever?"

Startled and holding his breath, Mr. Braginsky folds the sheet of paper with the drawing and places it on his lap to cover it under the desk. He looks up to where the voice came, only to see Mr. Alfred F. Jones, the physics teacher. standing just past the entrance of the room, staring back at him. Mr. Braginsky exhales and shakes his arm in a dismissive "go away" kind of motion.

"Ivan, how's it going? Found anything interesting? Said Mr. Jones, with an intentional, emphasized mispronounctiation of the "I" in "Ivan" as "eye".

"Alf," Ivan greeted him, referencing the extraterrestial protagonist of the eponymous 80's sitcom. "What do you want?"

Alfred goes to Ivan's desk and casually grabs the other's suitcase.

"Do you have, like, a stapler?"

Ivan puts Mei's drawing in the pocket of his coat and returns to his desk. He yanks the suitcase away from Alfred's hands.

"Not for you. Besides, I think I ran out of staples after my kids used it just now." Ivan replied with a dry tone. "And I don't want you to lose it or break it with your clumsy gorilla hands anyway."

Alfred smirks.

"So you're admitting I'm stronger, after all?"

"Clumsy." Ivan replies, walking to the door. Alfred follows him.

"Come on, I forgot mine at home. I need to staple my student's papers!" He begs. "And some other documents too," he mutters.

Ivan stops walking and turns to Alfred.

"Show me the papers and I'll staple them myself."

"Ivan, do you really think I'm gonna break it?"

No response.

"Man, the mug incident was an accident, I'm not asshole enough to break other people's stuff on purpose."

Ivan stepps out of the Rat Trap and closes the door behind him, with Alfred still inside.

"Oh you did break something of mine and it was not just a mug," Ivan replies, making noises with the keychain as to make Alfred think he's going to really lock the door and leave.  

Alfred takes a deep breath and exhales. He rubs his temples then folds his arms.

"Then will you come with me to the teacher's lounge? I left them there. I have to present some of those papers real soon. I don't have time to drive home or look for one in a store, you know. I'll treat you to lunch if you want."

Ivan opened the door slowly, only enough to poke his head inside, like a shy little kid.

"I'll help, but I'll choose the meal. I don't want cheap trash-burgers get it?."

"F-- yes!" Alfred cheers and slams the door open. He runs outside, pulling a startled Ivan from the arm.

"Hey I have to lock the door!" Ivan complains. And so Alfred freezes on the spot, almost stumbling on his feet.

"Ah yeah, I forgot. Lock the door, then. It's just that I'm really short on time."

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The lingering scent of cheap coffee floats in the air within the teachers lounge. The old coffee machine emmits a buzzing sound that everyone doubts is normal but no ones cares enough to actually check. Ivan and Alfred are sitting in the worn out but strangely comfortable couch next to the teachers' lockers.

Ivan had taken off his scarf, it was neatly folded and put on the couch, next to his lap. Under the beige coat he wears a wine-red turtleneck sweater, so his neck remains covered, as usual. Alfred had rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie for the sake of comfort.

They two of them were alone in the room as most other teachers usually tried to go home early at this time of the year. There was a small coffee table in front of the couch, where they placed a tall tower of paper sheets Alfred had been passing mini bunches of paper to Ivan, who carefully stapled them together and placed them in the opposite corner of the table. Within minutes they had picked a good rythm of work.

"So, how did your kids do this semester?" Alfred grabs the next bunch of paper sheets and hands it to Ivan after asking.

"Overall a few low grades but no failed students."

"Well my students didn't get anything lower than 80."

"In last week's meeting you complained that 'kids nowadays don't care about science,' I recall? You called them burger-flipping babies then."

"I was mad at the time," Alfred laughs. "And I meant just the neglectful ones... But okay, my kids got nothing lower than 70. There, I said it."

Alfred grabs a thick bunch of documents and sorts them out appropiately. As he inspects them he holds the documents in such a way that the contents can't be seen by Ivan. He gives the next batch to his helper and leaves the rest aside. A single sheet falls off from them and glides unceremoniously until it lands on Ivans feet. Alfred freezes. Ivan picks it up without thinking much of it until he flips the sheet and sees the other side of the page.

A drawing made with blue ink, maybe from a regular pen. The sheet has some tomato sauce stains, it seems. It features cutesy characters holding hands. A blushing, big-nosed character kisses a spectacled character on the cheek. The artstyle looks like what the quiet and mysterious school librarian would call "moe", as Ivan learned during their rare small talk. As "stylized" as the appearance of the characters is, he grimaces when he gets to figure out the character's identities and feels the earlier situation with Mei kind of repeat itself. All within the same hour.

Ivan glances at Alfred with a serious face, without saying anything, holding the cutesy drawing for Alfred to see. Alfred loosens his grip on the next batch of documents so much they fall to the floor. He immediately picks them up and rushes to take the drawing away from the other's hands.

"I confiscated that thing from a student who was not paying attention," he says after clearing his throat.

Ivan looks down on the mess of sheets on Alfred feet and notices at least three other similar drawings lying among the "normal" documents. After shaking his head from side to side, Ivan stands up and stretches his body.

"I'll get myself some coffee," he says, but when he tries to step away, his foot stumbles on the table's leg and the tower of unstapled sheets is collapses and is now everywhere. Alfred snarls and just throws the paper on his hands onto the table, blending in with the rest of the mess.

"Goddamn it, what a great help you turned out to be! Talk about clumsy!"

"It's your fault for being so disorganized!... And having weird things among important documents!"

"Weird things, you say? Well it's NOT my fault you're so delicate you get offended so easily. I bet you doodled things like this yourself when we were in high school."

"I bet you now wish I did!" Ivan raises his voice. He takes his suitcase and is about to rush out of the lounge, when Alfred talks back once more.

"Ivan."

And so he stops, but doesn't turn back to face him.

"Your stapler," Alfred says, holding the tool with a stretched arm, trying to get it to reach Ivan. Even though Ivan is not seeing, so he wouldn't know.

"It's yours now. Merry Fucking Christmas." Ivan grunts and storms out of the room.

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"The asshole forgot his dumb scarf," Alfred muttered to himself. "No way in hell I'm gonna go give it back to him."

More than an hour has passed since Ivan left the teacher's lounge. Alfred is sitting alone in the couch. Four neatly organized piles of documents were placed on the small table in front of him. The stapler sits on his lap as though and he pets it as though it was a living cat. Not too ago he had finished sorting out the last batch of documents, All of them now stapled together. He leans back and beholds the result of his efforts.

The first pile of paper corresponds to his final reports on the class and its members. The second and largest one corresponds to the planned content to review in the next semester. The third one is made of student's graded homework that he couldn't return to them on time. The last one is a collection of assorted documents and other non-school-related curiousities that had found their way into Alfred's current paperwork.  

Alfred reached to the fourth pile. He grabbed it hole and placed it on his lap, not before putting his new stapler aside. The pile contained old tests, some postcards, wrinkly notes about past lessons, some letters from his students from years ago, some pictures, and, who would have though, more drawings like the one that sparked the short-lived argument an hour ago.

The cutesy drawing is the sixth drawing featuring him and his coworker that he confiscated during that semester alone. The first time he caught a student drawing or writing such material he was shocked, almost traumatized, he could have said at the time. However, somewhere along the way he began to find it amusing. Now he would only confiscate material and punish the student if it was being used as a distraction during class. Otherwise he'd even joke about it and keep the students guessing. It's not like other coworkers didn't make similar jokes about them from time to time.

Of course Alfred would have never let Ivan know about that guilty pleasure of his. Not after the things he had said in the past, and has come to regret now. But more on that comes later. Now as he beholds his secret collection he wonders, why is he even keeping those dumb doodles around? In his mind, most of them look like specimens of failed human experimentation, begging for the sweet release of death. And yet...

Alfred moves the fourth pile back to the table and rests his hand on the side. His hand lands on the still folded, abandoned candy cane scarf. He slaps it away and it comes undone on the floor. Alfred sighs lets his body collapse on his side onto the couch, like a ragdoll.

His stretched arm hangs from the couch. Before he knows it, he's grabbing the scarf again. He brings it back to himself and strokes the fabric. He starts to knead it back and forth with his fingers, similar to how cats do when they find a comfortable spot for a nap. The scarf is soft and way more fluffy than its appearance would indicate.

And so Alfred digs into his pocket and takes out his cell phone to start texting.

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A brief vibration comes from Ivan's pocket on his coat. He's at a grocery store, standing in front of a stack full of small potato sacks. He's looking for ingredients for tonight's dinner. The store is very crowded. He hopes the vibration of the phone is not something important enough for him to need to call back.

Ivan takes the phone out, it's just a notification from the app store, a pending update for one of those annoying preinstalled applications that he never uses.

"I thought I turned those off." Once he places his phone back on his pocked, he puts a potato sack in the shopping cart, next to the cabbage, the carrots, and the onions. He turns his head around, making sure there's nothing else around that he might want to take. He clutches his turtle neck, forgetting once again that he left his scarf back at the school. He had an habit of stroking it to keep his hands busy when he was nervous, anxious, or bored. Concluding the assessment of his surroundings, he moves on to the meat and fish section. It didn't take too long for him to find what he needed, but he now he has to wait in a very long queue just so he can pay for the groceries and go home.

So Ivan stands there, advancing mini steps each several minutes. All the while the speakers around the store are emit obnoxious Christmas carol remixes as dictated by modern tradition. In a way he thinks it's kind of nice. To be reminded that there are other things in life to be mad about, other than whatever spurs out of a dumb, old high school c...

"Hey, sir. Your turn for the cashier," Ivan hears someone behind him on the queue say.

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Alfred locked his car and made his way through the parking lot of the mall. Both hands are hidden on the pocket of his jacket to protect them from the cold. He is whistling the Ruldolph the red-nosed reindeer song. He was interrupted when someone called him from several meters behind him.

He turned back. It was almost 5pm and the sun had begun to set a while ago. The sunset glare hurts Alfreds eyes and obscures the figure of the person standing in front of it, calling Alfred. He can't quite make out the words the other person is shouting. As he approaches the figure gets clear enough for him to figure out it's just Ivan. He's next to his car, carrying a grocery bag on each hand. Now that Ivan too, has a clearer sight of Alfred, his neutral expression changes to that of disgust.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Ivan exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" Alfred was confused.

"Don't 'excuse me'. Why the fuck are you wearing my scarf?"

"Oh, that. Welp." Alfred shrugged. "It's warm."

The two of them stood in there for the longest ten seconds ever.

"Are you gonna give it back to me or...?"

Alfred clicked his tongue.

"Of course I will." He ripped the scarf off of himself and threw it at Ivan. "Take your gay-ass scarf."

Ivan catches the garment, making sure none of it is dragged on the ground. One of the bags almost falls off, but he holds them well. He doesn't put the scarf back on. Just keeps it under his arm.

"That says more about you than about me." He replies.

Alfred lowers his head, awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.

"Whatever. So uh, lunch is like, cancelled, I guess? Is dinner ok?"

"I'll cook dinner at home." Ivan says. he taps his foot as he waits for Alfred to leave. Now that he got back his personal property he can carry on with his evening.

"What are you gonna make?" Alfred is still there.

"Shchi."

Alfred squints, lips curled a little bit.

"It's cabbage soup, you uncultured swine."

"Eeew. You know, my pal's restaurant serves the best lasagna ever. He's from Italy, you know."

"Thanks, I know. I'll take my sisters there sometime soon."

Ivan opens his car. He shoves the grocery bags in the front passenger seat and gets inside.

"Okay then why the hell did you shout at me from across the damn parking lot if you are gonna be like this?" Alfred yells from the side of the car, knocking on the front glass.

Ivan lowers his window.

"I just wanted my scarf. Saw a red-pink dot in the distance. I more-less knew it was you. Wondered if you carried it with you, but didn't think you'd be actually wearing it. I may be messed up, but you're a total creep. Just go away."

Ivan turns the keys. The engine sounds like it's going to start but then dies off. Both men's eyes widen and turn their heads to the front of the car. Ivan tries to start the engine again to no avail. Alfred folds his arms, expectant, until Ivan gives up on the tenth failed attempt. Defeated, Ivan leans on the steering wheel, his head presses the honk button. Some bystanders a few cars away begin to direct their attention towards them, but Ivan doesn't care. Alfred leans on the car, laughing histerically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "This is the kind of day that makes me regret being born." Ivan says as he chops fresh cabbage. The knife gets closer the fingers of his other hand and pokes the side of the thumb. Unsurprised, he leaves the knife and opens the nearest drawer to look for a band-aid.

"Look at it in a different way," says Alfred, who's turned back from him. "You got your scarf back, we managed to take your car for repair so you can have it back within the weekend. You don't need to drive to work for now anyway."

Alfred sniffs and grunts, trying to hold back the tears. "I even gave you a ride back to here, which is an hour away from where we were." He puts aside the onions he's chopping and rushes to get a napkin.

"I even volunteered to chop the onions you ungrateful piece of shit." He wipes his nose so the swearing gets muffled at the end.

"No one asked you to stay for dinner either." Ivan puts on a band-aid and resumes his tasks. "Besides, kids who complain about chores don't get dessert, you know," he jokes. He acknowledges Alfred has a point, though. His mood begins to lighten up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a while they managed to cook a decent cabbage soup. Alfred didn’t waste the opportunity to mock Ivan for eating "grandpa food", despite getting a second helping himself. Alfred was supposed to leave not long after dinner, but a couple of cookies and cups of sbiten later, the two of them are at Ivan's rooftop, simply chatting, gazing the sky at midnight. The roof was slightly angled, with blue flat roof tiles. And a thin layer of snow covered the surface, but none of that bothered them. It was also a one-story house, so they were not quite worried about falling off.

Alfred lies on his back. His arms are folded behind his head as a pillow. Sitting next to him is Ivan, hugging his knees with one arm, and hugging a two thirds-empty bottle of vodka with the other. Ivan tries to lie down on his back too, but is encumbered by another empty bottle behind him. He pushes it away with his free hand. When trying to lie down again. His head lands on the bottle, but he's a bit too drunk to care, he just stays like that. That's going to be his pillow. It is to be noted that while there are two open bottles, Alfred has abstained from taking a sip, knowing that he'll eventually have to drive home.

"You know, I kinda regret not studying Astronomy at all in university," Ivan said, biting the tip of the bottle. In the end he had gone for Computer Science.

"Me too," Alfred replied. "But a degree on Engineering for me wasn't bad at all. Not like I'm doing much with it, though."

Ivan reaches to Alfred and pulls his sleeve slightly to get his attention.

"Your telescope still works?"

"Pfft, that thing's been broken for years," Alfred replies. "I never got rid of it, though. I've been saying I'm 'fixing' it for years, but it's just gathering dust in my basement."

"Why cling onto old stuff, though." Ivan takes a sip of Vodka.

"It's not old stuff until it becomes irrelevant, right?" Alfred turns his body on its side to face Ivan. His head rests on one hand. "We still love space and stuff. Hell, we are gazing at it right now!"

"Yeah, even the other club members called us weird." Ivan gulps down the remaining contents of the bottle. "If you want, I could help you clean your basement after I leave the town."

"Oh that'd be... Wait what?" with furrowed brows, Alfred's eyes widen.

"What?" Ivan doesn't understand the reaction.

"What did you say?"

"I'd help you throw the trash." Ivan shruggs.

"What do you mean you're gonna move out of town?" Alfred drags his own body closer to Ivan.

"I'm thinking of it." Ivan plays with his hair, dodges his gaze. He clasps both hands together, doesn’t elaborate further.

"And your job?"

"Teaching has always been part-time stuff. I'm more established as a programmer now. I'm just waiting for a reply from any of the places I applied into."

"What the- Why didn't you tell me about it?"

Ivan turns his back on Alfred. He hugs the empty bottle of vodka like a teddy bear.

"That matters because...?"

"Then just... why?"

"I really want to get rid of the old stuff myself." Ivan replies with a hand his chest. "You know what I mean?"

Alfred stops making questions. He lies on his back again and sights. His breath is visible in the warm vapor escaping his mouth. His glasses become foggy so he takes them out. And so he finally notices that there's no moon to be seen anywhere in the firmament. But the stars were still there, still, beautful, The location of Ivan's home near the countryside made the precious stars even more visible on the darker environment. Even if visible, a full moon would not outshine them that night. He can almost hear them twinkle, if such a thing existed outside of cartoon sound effects. He turns to Ivan. He is seeing them too. They are reflected on his irises.

Alfred hadn't paid as much attention to space and the stars as he'd have liked after he started university. Even less so after his telescope broke down. It was the telescope Ivan gave him for his birthday, when they were on their high school's Astronomy club. Meeting Ivan again as a teacher in the same school gave both of them a chance to get back to those interests, after having to push them aside in favor of their new duties and obligations.

Though that came only recently. Right now they can to tolerate each other, yet at the time of their first encounter as teachers, after separation during university, Ivan wanted nothing to do with him. It was like their time as two territorial chimps posing as teenage nerds was the only relationship they ever had. As if they had never managed to become best friends before they had to part ways. And it was all his fault, he thought; for as early as that reencounter Alfred realized that just like the stars, Ivan too had become inaccessible after he smashed the telescope with his baseball bat.

"Dude, maybe you should go to bed, you know," Alfred sat up. "I should go home too, I guess."

"I'm not done with this vodka." Ivan declared, lifiting the bottle with force.

Alfred slaps the bottle out of Ivan's hands and it falls off the rooftop. The shrill sound of glass shattering offscreen leaves the state of the ground by the house's entrance to be imagined. Ivan glares at Alfred, a few veins seem to be popping out.

"It was empty anyway. Come on big boy, you drunk."

A grmbly Ivan lifts his arm towards Alfred. Alfred takes his hand and helps him sit up. Ivan stands up on his own, but as soon as he starts showing signs of dizziness Alfred holds him. He makes sure Ivan gets back inside in one piece. All the while Alfred is not even trying to hide that Ivan is a bit too heavy for him. But Alfred would rather place the blame on Ivan being "fat" instead of lack of strength or exhaustion due to the time.

At some point even before they left the rooftop Ivan's body decides without telling anyone that it will stop cooperating altogether. So Alfred has to carry him all the way back to his bedroom as well. Ivan's head and arms are perched onto Alfred's shoulder and the tip of his feet are being dragged on the floor.

"What the hell Ivan? You're effin' fat." 

"I'm big boned," Ivan whispers.

"Big-boned my ass!" 

Panting and grouching, Alfred grouches and throws Ivan on his bed. His legs are left hanging from the edge of the bed after he falls like the potato sack he bought earlier. He giggles from the slight bouncing on the mattress

"Really? I don't want to see and find out for myself," Ivan talks back and crawls his way into the center of the bed to fit his whole body in.

"Shut up. You're the fat one here."

"Don't worry, Alf. Softer bodies are cute too." Ivan makes squeezing motions with both hands.

"You say the weirdest things when you're wasted." Chuckling, Alfred slaps Ivan's hands then hides them on his pockets.

"Who's wasted?"

"You are wasted."

Ivan shakes his head left to right. Standing next to the bed, Alfred leans close to Ivan.  

"Come on, big boy, take off your shoes and go to sleep already." He says, patting the other's large chest. "Let's hope you don't wake up all hung over. I'll lock the doors well and turn off the lights, so don't worry, okay? Good night.

Alfred walks out of the room and closes the door. But Ivan keeps talking, seemingly not realizing Alfred is not there anymore.

"Say, Alfred. We didn't use to be like this. Do you still want us to remain as rivals? Even now?"

The door of the room is thrown open. Alfred knows the best would have been to ignore the other's rambling and leave, but he is overcome by a an impulse even stronger than him. His excuse is that he is just making sure Ivan's really saying what he heard or that he's not asking for help for whatever reason. He just stops and keeps listening, though. He is yet to step back inside.

"When I said I regret not studying Astronomy, I meant it."

Ivan is now lying on his belly. His face rests against a pillow, so his words are muffled, but Alfred is able to make out most of what he's saying with little trouble.

"We've been so childish. And it's my fault we are like this."

Alfred is uncertain about the point Ivan is trying to get to. Maybe is just pointless drunken rambling, but he wants to listen still.

He adjusts his glasses and leans on the doorframe.  Ivan turns his body again to face the window next to the bed and curls his body in a ball. Even his wide back begins to look small in Alfred eyes.

"I'm sorry for moving back to Russia instead of going for the University we wanted. I left you alone, and told you confusing, unwanted things too."

Alfred's heart becomes heavy inside his chest, his lips shut tight, curled downwards. He steps inside and returns to Ivan's side. He sits on his bed. Ivan face is still turned away from him.

"Since we met again I've been doing as you told me before I left. But it hurts, you know, going back to this after we got to become friends."

Alfred gets further in the bed and pulls Ivan's shoulder to face him. Ivan looks at him with squinty, glassy eyes. It is uncertain if alcohol is to blame for that.

"Don't touch me," Ivan whines. He languidly throws a pillow to alfred's face. "I'm sorry Alfred but what do you even want anymore? You rejected me then, but won't stop teasing me now."  

"Hey Ivan I want to..."

"I don't want to like you anymore. You're too much."

Alfred's heart becomes even heavier. So much his body alone will be crushed under its weight. He allows himself to fall on top of Ivan to wrap his arms around him. His glasses fall off his face and on his hand, but he tosses them away. Ivan lifts both knees together. He wants to curl up again, but is unable to.

"I'm the one who's sorry," said Alfred.

He puts both hands on Alfred's sides, but is hesitant to return the gesture. Alfred buries his face in the gap between Ivan's neck and shoulder. Alfred's cold cheeks against the warmth of his body sends chills down Ivan's spine. The skin underneath his clothes get goosebumps. He closes his eyes.

"I shouldn't have reacted like that when you told me." Alfred muttered to the other's ear.

He clings tightly to Ivan's body. His resistance is waning, but Alfred hugs tighter and tigther as he continues.

"I was a stupid kid just like you. I was confused, and sad... and I got angry."

A knot swells inside Alfred's throat, he jitters, his arms and legs tremble, but he wouldn't stop.

"It was easier to hit you and call you disgusting and a traitor, instead of saying "goodbye" and accepting that maybe... I felt the same for you too."

Alfred's lungs run out of air after saying that. He makes a pause to breathe. Ivan doesn't respond. He opens his watery eyes to see Alfred, but everything is blurry in his eyes and hazy in his head. He can't tell if he's dreaming or not, so he too, wraps his arms tight around the other. He runs his hands back and forth on his back. He wants to confirm he's holding the real deal and not an alcohol-induced hallucination.

"Ivan, I didn't want you to leave... I don't want you to leave again now. I like you too."

And like that, the thoughts weighting down on Alfred's heart escape through the air he exhales. Ivan turns his face in and goes for a kiss. He misses and smooches the corner of the other's lips. Smiling, Alfred cups Ivan's face on one hand and joins their lips properly. And it was all great until Alfred noticed the smell and taste of Vodka and remembered that Ivan was drunk as f...

"Wait wait wait. Stop."

Alfred gets up. Suddenly he doesn't feel as heavy anymore. He picks his glasses from the floor and fixes his jacket.

"No good. Let's... try again when you're sober," He says after clearing his throat. However, Ivan was already passed out.

After realizing Ivan's done for the night, Alfred begins walking in circles around the room at a pace so fast he's almost hopping like a rabit. He feels so energized he might as well do it. He cover his mouth to muffle what would otherwise be uncontrollable squealing.

After the euphoria wears off the events that transpired moments ago sink in completely. In a single day did they just sort out years of buried feelings and childish grudges? Oh boy, no. But they sure had one hell of a start.

Now A stream of questions flooded Alfred's mind. With what had happened, does that mean they are lovers now? Will Ivan even remember what happened? If he doesn't remember, will he tell him and explain what happened? Would Ivan believe him and/or confirm his confession?

He doesn't know if he should feel happy or scared. More importantly, he's thinking whether or not he should stay over tonight. It's not like he doesn't want to go home. However, leaving a drunk person alone is always dangerous, even when they are asleep.  

As carefully as he can, Alfred takes off Ivan's shoes and leaves them next to the bed. He turns Ivan's body on its side and puts him on a position to lessen the choking risk in case he gets nauseous; although so far Ivan doesn't show signs of sickness. His breath is calm and follows a normal pace too.

A bit hesitant, Alfred decides to check Ivan's pockets, only so he doesn't crush or damage anything under his weight or when rolling on bed. He takes out Ivan's phone and wallet out of his pants and leaves them on the night table. Ivan didn't seem to have anything on his jacket, but then Alfred pulls out a now wrinkly folded paper sheet. He opens it and the more he examines it the more flustered he becomes. Of all the weird erotic art of them two their students had made, that one was by far the most detailed and realistic-looking as of yet.

He could only wonder where did that thing come from. Leaving the drawing together with the other objects, Alfred goes to pull the thickest blanket he can find out of the closet and covers Ivan with it. He rushes out of the room to lock the house properly, makes a trip to the kitchen, and then returns to Ivan with a tall glass of water, just in case.

Alfred leans close to Ivan and kisses his forehead, an affectionate, loud smooch. He sits on the bed again, close to Ivan's legs. The wisest thing to do for now is to stay there and take care of his beloved rival. At least until he wakes up. Whatever comes next for them they will figure. After a day like that, It's not like he will be able to fall sleep anyway.  

The End.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Final note:

Writing this was one hell of a ride. This is my first fanfic ever, and I'm not a very good writer when it comes to prose. But I gave it my best shot, and wrote this with lots of love. I'm sorry if the overall tone or mood is too bittersweet or if the humour is kinda sour. I also hope Ivan and Alfred’s backstory wasn’t too hard or confusing to piece totgether. I'd still say the ending is a happy one, even if there's an air of uncertainty for the future haha. 

Día 7: [Your favorite trope] → artist!AU

Lo único que interrumpía el silencio en la habitación de Simon era su constante tarareo de la canción Somebody to Love de Queen, mientras se hallaba sentado frente a su atril dando brochazos con acrílico sobre el lienzo a diestra y siniestra. El aire estaba tibio por ser pleno verano y, aunque tenía la ventana abierta, de igual forma el calor reinaba entre las cuatro paredes. Es por eso que Snow había decidido quitarse la camiseta y pintar en tan sólo jeans, a pesar de que eso significaba que su torso y brazos se encontraban adornados no sólo con lunares, sino que también con manchas de acrílico de diversos colores. Cada vez que el chico dejaba volar su imaginación, el lienzo no era lo único que recibía los brochazos de pintura.

Simon era un verdadero desastre pintando, pero no por eso sus obras dejaban de ser espectaculares. Trasmitían una vibra inusitada, una energía que era difícil detallar a base de palabras. No importaba si sólo trataba de reproducir la vista de la ciudad que tenía desde la ventana de su departamento o si deseaba realizar algo más abstracto, sus creaciones siempre tenían una parte de él inmiscuido en cada uno de los trazos. Por ende, mancharse los dedos y el rostro con pintura a causa de su falta de orden era un costo demasiado pequeño en comparación al resultado final, y seguramente si fuera más meticuloso sus cuadros no serían lo mismo. Baz, aunque nunca lo había mencionado en voz alta, le fascinaba verlo pintar: sus ojos azules brillaban como si tuviera estrellas en su interior cada vez que se detenía a pensar en cómo continuar, y su rostro concentrado pasándose la lengua por el labio inferior resultaba tremendamente atractivo.

Baz no era experto en el dibujo ni mucho menos en la pintura, pero de vez en cuando le gustaba tomar prestado las acuarelas de su novio y tratar de representar lo mejor que podía los paisajes que le gustaban basándose en sus recuerdos.  A veces, mientras Snow estaba en lo suyo, pintaba el bosque que rodeaba su casa de Hampshire, las luces nocturnas de Londres o el Gran Prado de cuando estudiaban en Watford. Incluso a veces detestaba no tener el talento de Simon, porque así podría trazar su bella imagen de cuando estaba inclinado sobre su block de dibujos o sobre sus lienzos con una sonrisa de oreja a oreja tallada en su rostro.

(Aunque para eso existía la fotografía. Por eso también, y de forma muy disimulada, le sacaba fotos con su celular para ponerlas de fondo de pantalla).

De un momento a otro Simon dejó su pincel dentro de un vaso con agua y se desperezó, haciendo tronar su cuello. Baz al oírlo levantó la vista, y al observar que el chico admiraba con emoción lo que fuera que estuviese pintando, alzó una ceja con curiosidad. Ya llevaba un tiempo echado sobre la cama de Snow practicando con las acuarelas (lógicamente cerciorándose de no ensuciar el cubrecama con agua), así que lo más seguro era que Snow ya había realizado un gran avance de su cuadro durante ese tiempo. Baz dejó el block con los indicios de un arrebol a un costado y gateó sobre el catre, acercándose a su novio para poder llamar su atención y averiguar qué tipo de corriente artística estaba siguiendo en ese momento.

“¿Qué estás pintando ahora, Simon?”

El aludido inclinó el tronco hacia un costado para encontrarse con los ojos grises de Baz, y le sonrió radiante. En su mirada había un brillo de orgullo y entusiasmo que no se molestó en ocultar.

“Ven a verlo por ti mismo.”

Baz parpadeó y se puso de pie, caminando hasta posicionarse a un costado de su pareja. Al observar la imagen que el lienzo exhibía, se quedó sin palabras y sintió que el corazón le daba un vuelco.

Era él. No era un retrato exquisitamente detallado, pero en el dibujo se podía ver claramente a Baz sentado de piernas cruzadas sobre la cama de Simon, con la cabeza gacha sobre un block apoyado en sus muslos, un pincel en su mano, la expresión pensativa, con el cabello negro cayéndole sobre las mejillas y con unas cuantas acuarelas sobre el velador. El chico observó a Simon anonadado, no siendo capaz de asumir que lo había estado pintando durante todo este tiempo sin que él lo notara.

Simon pareció adivinarle el pensamiento, ya que se carcajeó divertido.

“Si tú me sacas fotografías cuando no me doy cuenta, yo bien puedo pintarte cuando tú no te estás dando cuenta.”

“¿Lo sabías?” preguntó sorprendido.

“La tienes de fondo de pantalla en tu celular, Baz.”

Baz abrió la boca para salir a su defensa, pero al no poder decir nada simplemente dejó escapar una risa ahogada. A la mierda, lo había atrapado. Y doblemente. Echó nuevamente un vistazo rápido al cuadro y, con los labios fruncidos por una alegría vergonzosa, se agachó para poder posicionar su frente sobre la de Snow.

“¿Te gusta?” susurró Simon, observando fijamente los párpados cerrados de Baz y su sonrisa tranquila.

“Me encanta.”

Simon se sintió a gusto, contento por el apoyo silencioso que Baz le entregaba cada vez que él deseaba pintar. Quizás el chico no era un experto en arte de la pintura —él estaba más inclinado a la música y la pasión por su violín— y no podía darle opiniones más allá de lo que le transmitía o si le gustaban, pero de todos modos siempre estaba allí, acompañándolo u observándolo con interés. La expresión artística de Simon se potenciaba al doble cuando sabía que su novio estaba cerca, regalándole una leve sonrisa cada vez que levantaba la cabeza del lienzo o de sus acrílicos.

Era su musa aunque, por Merlín, sonaba tremendamente vergonzoso.

Snow aprovechó la cercanía de ambos para echarle los brazos al cuello y tratar de acercarlo. Baz trató de poner resistencia y él, insistiendo, comenzó a acariciar con sus dedos llenos de pintura las mejillas de Baz.

“No, no hagas eso,” rio Baz en vano. Aquella era una mala manía que tenía Simon, y gracias a ello, siempre que el chico finalizaba alguna obra siempre ambos terminaban con acrílico adornando sus cuerpos, “que vas a mancharme.”

“Demasiado tarde.”

Dicho eso, lo besó. Simon tenía un ligero olor a pintura, la misma que se hallaba salpicaba en su pecho tibio, sus brazos dorados, sus manos firmes y ahora en los pómulos y dedos de Baz. Al separarse se encontraron sin aliento, y Simon aprovechó para mirar su nuevo cuadro y a su novio sonrojado. Sus labios dibujaron una pequeña sonrisa y, pintando su índice con un poco de acrílico azul, se la pasó a Baz sobre la nariz con cariño.

“Oye, Baz,” murmuró quedo, notando que Baz fruncía el ceño resignado ante la nueva mancha que adornaba su bonito rostro, “te gustaría… ¿quieres ser mi lienzo?”

“¿Tú qué?”

No le respondió. Nuevamente le estaba besando.

“¡Por Crowley, Simon, me haces cosquillas!” 

“Si te mueves no podré terminar y me quedará horrible, amor.”

Baz soltó un bufido, pero de igual forma de echó su cabeza hacia atrás apoyándose en la almohada y levantó el brazo para jugar con uno de los rizos que adornaban la frente de Simon. Ambos se encontraban echados sobre la cama y sin camiseta, con Simon acostado sobre el cuerpo de su novio mientras se encargaba de pintar tiernamente sobre su pecho una versión rápida de La noche estrellada hecha con temperas, para que fuera más fácil de quitar con un baño. Los movimientos del pincel sobre la piel de Baz le generaban cosquillas y se removía cada tanto, pero de igual forma se dejaba con tal de ver de cerca el rostro ensimismado de Simon mezclando azules, blancos y amarillos sobre su persona. En un principio le había parecido una propuesta sinsentido, pero allí estaba, aceptándola igualmente.

“Ni siquiera entiendo por qué dejo que me hagas estas cosas.”

“Pues porque me amas, ¿por qué si no?”

“Me voy a mover,” le amenazó con burla.

Snow le sacó la lengua y continuó con su labor. Él, por su parte, se encontraba embelesado observando el pecho grisáceo de Baz luciendo los tonos fríos de la famosa pintura, subiendo y bajando a causa de su respiración y con el silencio en su habitación como única compañía. Los abdómenes de ambos se rozaban, y aunque el calor dentro de la habitación provocaba que incluso la piel de Baz estuviese a temperatura ambiente, a Simon no le importaba. No cuando tenía a alguien perfecto como Baz a su lado, dejándose acariciar por las finuras de sus trazos y las cerdas de su pincel mientras arrastraba los colores, convirtiéndolo en el mejor lienzo que jamás pensó que podría tener.

“¿Me estás convirtiendo en una obra de arte?” preguntó este con la ceja alzada, desviando su mano desde el cabello de Snow hasta acariciar su barbilla con el dorso.

Simon recargó su rostro hacia la mano de Baz, rozándola con los labios. Acto seguido, y abandonado el pincel sobre algún lugar de la cama, se dejó caer sobre el cuerpo del chico apoyando su mejilla sobre su pecho, justamente por debajo de donde el último esquema de azul con negro tomaba lugar. Sintió como el brazo de su novio lo rodeaba por lo hombros y él cerró los ojos, pensando que ni con sus mejores capacidades artísticas podría crear algo más hermoso.

La noche estrellada seguía subiendo y bajando ante cada exhalación.

“Tú ya eres una obra de arte, Baz.”