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Ivan is annoying.He was annoying in second grade, middle school, and senior year. He has probably been annoying since the day he was born, but Till doesn’t know anything about Ivan before approximately age seven.They’re forty-nine, now. Rather, Ivan turned forty-nine in February and Till’s forty-ninth birthday looms on the horizon. For forty-two years, he has endured Ivan’s heinous bullshit.To make matters worse, when he was forty-five, he went and married the idiot. Because Till loves him, or whatever.It’s not like Till is trying to push either of them into an early grave. The fact of the matter is, no matter how young he feels, he is firmly middle aged. The consequences of the passage of time are forefront in his mind when Ivan starts sucking at his skin like he’s trying to drain Till of juice. Ivan is blathering about treatments and medication; some shit Till could quite frankly not give less of a fuck about. “If you want to stick it in, could you get on with it?”Ivan huffs. Brat. “Where is your sense of romance?”“Died sometime in my thirties.”Markedly untrue. He pulled out all the stops for Christmas last year, baked a fancy cake and everything. Till let Ivan hand-feed it to him because the brandy was burning in his stomach and he was feeling remarkably indulgent.The sound of lube being squirted out of the pump is music to Till’s ears. He’s horny in an impatient way that urges Ivan to hurry up. This, of course, inspires Ivan to be an unrepentant shithead and drag things out. Till could kill him and collect insurance, assuming he didn’t get caught. At this stage of his life, the risk seems worthwhile.“Oh, don’t say that.” Ivan’s tone is sappy and saccharine. He lives for the thrill of working breathless grunts out of Till, turning them into hopeless scrunches of his eyes.For all of his shit-talk, Till is a sensitive lover. A couple of well-placed gropes here, a couple of smoky insinuations in his ears there and he’s done for. With two fingers scissoring him lazily, Ivan has him rosy, rubbing at Till's prostate with insistence.Till has done a lot of thinking, lately, on the subject of wasted time. Dates gone wrong. Messy divorces on Ivan’s side. Painful hours of mutual commiseration. Expensive trips to the beach, all-inclusive as a matter of course. This is the sort of thing you should have done with your ex-wives to show them you cared, moron, Till said, reprimanding him.It’s over now, Ivan murmured, voice thick with relief on the heels of divorce number two's finalization.For the longest time, Till couldn’t fathom why Ivan didn’t try harder to keep them.He knows, now, that it is because Ivan, childishly, was unable to get over or move past his first love.Truly, what a waste of time.Ivan’s ring tickles at the juncture where it hits Till's spine. His breath is hot against Till’s nape as he glides against him, hard and eager. “What are you thinking about?”Till huffs. “What do you think?”“Some avant-garde art film.”He rolls his eyes. “You, idiot.”“Oh.” Ivan’s honest, genuine surprise does funny things to Till's stomach. “Well, that’s nice to hear. Thank you.”Ugh, Till thinks. Ivan is pathetically easy to please. Till wants to bundle him in blankets and make him hot chocolate until he dies. Which is why, he supposes, there is a wedding band on his finger and why he said yes when Ivan sloppily proposed.Till feels feverish by the time Ivan finally pushes his cock inside, knees wobbling with the effort to hold himself up. Fingers bundled in the sheets, he is grateful for Ivan’s hands on his hips, keeping him steady.Being engulfed in Till’s heat has Ivan quiet. He’s still rambling, but now the words are jumbled. The only things Till can make out in the haze are tight and warm and I adore you.Sap.It is less an issue of stamina and more an issue of biology that keeps Ivan from blowing his wad in sixty seconds flat. Age is good for one thing, and it is lowering Ivan's motility significantly. He comes with an open-mouthed gasp and a cradling, bruising hug that knocks Till flat. He wheezes, turning his head to the side so he won’t suffocate.Ivan refuses to pull out until he is completely soft, peppering Till with kisses while Till gripes. “Enough,” he says eventually, sweaty and sticky and aching for a shower.Obligingly, Ivan rolls free. He toys with his chain necklace and his ring, glancing at it, then at Till, then back again with such blatant fondness that Till can’t be mad.He ruffles Ivan’s hair. Kisses Ivan’s cheek. “You are an embarrassment.”“I’m your embarrassment.”Yes, he is. In all the ways that matter.Ivan chases Till into the bathroom. Washes Till's hair. It’s a pain in the ass to repay the favor, standing on his tiptoes while Ivan mocks him, but Till insists upon it, stubborn to a fault.They brush their teeth, climbing into bed in fresh pajamas. Till loses patience for whatever the hell Ivan is talking about somewhere around minute five and closes his eyes.Sharing space with someone who knows him so well, inside and out, is nice. Ivan is not only his husband, but also his best friend.They might have wasted a few years, but there’s still plenty of time ahead.“Shut up, Ivan,” Till mumbles, interlacing their fingers.Obediently, Ivan shuts up.“Love you,” is murmured a moment later.Within minutes, snores fill Ivan’s ears.He wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world.