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The apartment was too small for both of them. Andrew’s workstation faced the wall; Ivan faced Andrew. It was hardly coincidence.
The way Andrew spoke about the game sounded just like how you’d talk about a relationship, and Ivan caught himself wondering if Andrew meant it that way. Ivan just wanted to help, he wanted to fix the small things Andrew didn’t see, prevent Andrew from overworking. “You’ve been at it all day,” Ivan prodded. “You should take a break. You look awful.”
Andrew’s fingers stayed over the keyboard. “Just need to finish this part.”
Ivan smiled, or something close to it. “You could work on it tommorow, it’s not like it’s going anywhere. That’s why you burn out so easy, you don’t know when to stop.” Andrew didn’t answer him. Ivan leaned against the wall, eyes tracing the curve of Andrew’s shoulders, the way the screen’s light hollowed his face. “You still haven’t finished the patch, have you?”
“I’m… working on it.”
“Right,” Ivan said as he pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “I’m just saying, don’t kill yourself over it.” He said it like a joke, but Andrew didn’t laugh. It was all meant to help, all meant with love.
Andrew eventually sighed and leaned back.
“Fine,” he conceeded. “Break time.”
Ivan pretended to look surprised. “Wow, really? Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”
“Shut up,” Andrew said with a smirk, he stretched his arms above his head as he stood, sweatshirt riding just enough to momentarily expose the skin of his stomach.
They didn’t have much in the kitchen, but they found some instant noodles, a few stray packets of soy sauce, and two mismatched mugs. Ivan filled the kettle while Andrew sat at the counter, he was still alert but his eyes looked heavy, tired after spending so many long hours on the same mind numbing task.
“What’s got you stuck?” Ivan pryed as he turned the kettle on, acting as if he didn’t alrwady know it had been the same thing all week.
Andrew shrugged. “Just some bug. The timing isn’t triggering right. It’s probably something stupid.”
“You sure you don’t want me to look at it?”
That earned him a look, one of those faintly amused almost bewildered looks. “You don’t know how to code, Ivan.”
“Yeah, but maybe if you explained it...”
“I don’t want to explain it,” Andrew retorted. The kettle began to whistle, a high pitched keen as it reached the higher temperature. “It help if you already knew what to look for.”
The words weren’t meant to be cruel, so Ivan smiled, pulling the kettle from its heat and bringing the whistle to a halt. “Guess you’re right,” he replied. “You’ve got the genius brain, not me.” Ivan poured the water and covered each cup. “You know, it’s just… weird. You’re so smart, but this one thing keeps tripping you up. Almost like it’s bigger than you.”
Andrew frowned, maybe he was confused.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ivan said quickly, trying to clarify. “I just mean you set such a high bar for yourself. Maybe it’s… too high. Y’know, you don’t need to prove anything.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything,” Andrew said back quickly.
“I know, I know,” Ivan soothed, his hands going up defensively. “It’s just… I worry you put all of yourself into something that can’t love you back. It eats you alive. You give and give, and it still won’t cooperate. Maybe it’s time to admit it’s not just the code that’s the problem.”
Andrew was definitely confused, a little hurt.
Ivan smiled and tried to defuse by stepping closer, bringing the mugs with him. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Andrew, not when you’ve already done your best.” He set down the mug in front of him and something in Andrew’s face faltered. Ivan knew that Andrew needed someone to pull him out of the way of himself before he fell.
In truth, maybe he just wanted to be the one who decided when Andrew hit the ground.
They ate quietly, interrupted only by the hum of Andrew’s computer still running behind them. Ivan watched him from across the kitchen bar, the way he slouched, the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the tremor in his hand when he lifted the chopsticks. Ivan wanted to reach out, to force him to stop before he broke himself, but what would Andrew be without the game? What would Ivan be, if Andrew ever finished it?
“Hey,” Andrew said suddenly. “Thanks for… you know. Making me eat.”
Ivan smiled. “Someone’s got to take care of you.”
Andrew didn’t argue after that. He just finished his food then slunk back to his PC. After a moment of fiddling with the mouse, he saved his progress, the glow dimming as he powered everything down.
“I’ll crash for tonight I guess,” he said, dragging the blanket off the back of the couch. He lay down on the rug, curling toward his computer like it could keep him warm.
“Yeah,” Ivan said. “Get some rest.”
He watched Andrew pull the blanket over his shoulder. The sink was empty except for the two mugs, but Ivan filled it anyway. He let them soak as he took to the counters, scrubbing slow circles even where there was hardly any grime. He could hear Andrew shifting as he cleaned, the rustle of fabric, then eventually stillness. Ivan rinsed the sponge, wrung it out, and emptied the sink. The mugs were set to dry, then he polished the kettle. When he finally checked, the clock read well past midnight. He turned off the light and stood in the dark kitchen, listening, and sure enough Andrew’s breathing had evened out, low and steady.
It was always easier once Andrew stopped talking, once he stopped fighting the rhythm Ivan set for both of them.
The kitchen light clicked off, and Ivan stood a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Andrew was asleep with one arm thrown over his head, the blanket had slipped down to his waist.
Ivan crossed the room quietly, treading along the seams of thw floor boards. He sat on the edge of the couch, close enough to hear the tiny catch in Andrew’s breathing each time he exhaled.
He told himself he was only making sure Andrew was comfortable, yet he continued to stare. The rise and fall of Andrew’s chest, the faint twitch of his fingers, everything seemed to move in a rhythm that Ivan could almost believe was his own making. It calmed him, being the one still awake. He imagined that if Andrew woke now, he’d see him there and understand: that this was what care looked like, that someone was keeping the world quiet for him.
He should have gone to bed. He didn’t.
Instead he sat back down on the floor near Andrew. Ivan’s eyes traced the line of Andrew’s jaw, the smudge of stubble at his chin. “You’d never take care of yourself if I didn’t,” he murmured, and he reached out, fingers hovering an inch above Andrew’s arm. The heat of him was startling, so Ivan drew back, heart climbing his throat. He wanted to help, to make it easier, but it felt as if he could never get close enough without wanting to be inside the same skin. He could hear every sound, each inhale, every minute shift in the floorboards beneath them. Ivan’s pulse even began to sync to it, slower and slower, until he could almost believe they were the same organism, sharing breath.
If Andrew would just see that, it would be fine. If he’d just let Ivan help.
He could see the faint lines of strain around his eyes, the way his muscles tensed even in sleep. It was a testament to his dedication, his relentless pursuit of perfection. Ivan watched the rise and fall of his chest, a hypnotic rhythm, then carefully, he fount himself lifting the edge of Andrew’s sweatshirt. The fabric was soft, and he slowly pulled the shirt up, revealing more of Andrew’s bare skin.
Ivan’s other hand moved to his own waist, his fingers deftly unbuttoning his pants. He could feel the heat building within him, a desperate need to connect, to possess. His eyes never left Andrew’s face, watching for any sign of awareness, any hint that he might wake, but when he found none, his hand slid into his pants, wrapping around his length. He began to stroke, his movements slow, matching the rhythm of Andrew’s breathing. He glanced to the sight of Andrew’s exposed skin, taking in every detail of his naval, trailing the faint line of hair that disapeared into his boxers.
He shifted, the floor complaining under his weight. The noise was small, Andrew’s lashes fluttered, abd everything in Ivan went terribly still. Andrew didn’t move though, his breathing stayed slow.
“You don’tappreciate what I do for you,” he murmured, it was so quiet, he wasn’t aware he had said it aloud. “It’s me. I keep you upright, You’d just, burn out without me.” His voice cracked. “You’d disappear.” Ivan’s hand had resumed, and then became more urgent.
Andrew remained still, his breathing steady, his body relaxed, so Ivan took that as a sign, a silent permission. He increased the pace of his strokes, his hand moving faster, his grip tighter. The sensation was almost too much, the pleasure bordering on pain and his breath turned into short, sharp gasps. He could feel the pressure building, the need for release almost overwhelming. His eyes flicked back to Andrew’s face, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of awareness.
He didn’t mean to cry. It came without warning, he pressed a hand over his mouth to hold it in, but the sound escaped, and he doubled over, head between his knees, yet he continued his ministrations.
Andrew heard it all. Each choked breath, each wet swallow. It was too private to witness, too personal to exist in his space, yet it was happenig above him.
With a final, desperate stroke, Ivan reached his climax, his body tensing and he spilled onto Andrew’s bare stomach. He slowly withdrew his hand, looking down at Andrew, seeing the way his cum glistened on his skin, and reached out. His fingers traced through thr the lines of his release, spreading it across Andrew’s skin. He shuddered and held back another sob, bringing his fingers up to his lips. Ivan could taste the salt of his own release, a bitter reminder of how far this had gone.
He wiped his face with his sleeve, then dragged his hand down his shirt, smearing it across the fabric, “I just... You don’t even see me, not really, not the way I see you.” His voice dropped into something hoarse and childlike. “I’d do anything. I’d be you if I could. I’d make it easier.”
Andrew didn’t dare open his eyes. His heart pounded thick and loud against the floor, and he was sure that Ivan could hear it. He wanted to move, to run and hide, but instinct told him that any motion might shatter the fragile logic Ivan had built around them both. So he lay still, trapped inside his own body, letting the quiet stretch thin as a wire.
When Ivan lifted his head, his face was wet. Andrew lay there, every muscle locked, his own breath measured and he kept his eyes shut until the sobs grew softer, until they turned into small wet sighs of someone finally emptied out. Andrew waited until the floorboards creaked down the hall before opening his eyes. Yet he still didn’t move even long after Ivan had left, because it felt like something had been built over him, some heavy, invisible architecture of need he could never crawl out from under.