Work Text:
It's as Till is fiddling around with the song that he realizes he’s being stared at.
It’s not that he’s paranoid after straying from requests on his first week on the job, but after the fifth straight fur elise that day, no one can blame him for getting a little antsy. He gets the requests for moonlight sonatas, for claire de lunes, and rhapsody in blues on the daily, and he can feel himself getting twitchy with it.
He’d even waited for a gap between the guest’s requests before playing the half-baked song he’d been composing for weeks. It’s loud and punk and definitely less than fitting for the posh and tranquil vibe the restaurant has going for it, with its swanky lounge and champagne bottles that could pay his rent for months, but it feels so different than it did in Till’s keyboard back at home that he wishes he could pocket the sound.
So, again, not paranoid. Except now he’s looking up after his performance, and there’s a man staring from behind a faraway column, unblinking.
Till's hands are frozen over the keys, waiting for a scolding. Or a fucking blink, maybe, whichever comes first. But the man is wearing a light blue apron and black tie. Part of the waiting staff, then. There’s a tray tucked under his arm, too, so he’s probably supposed to be working, but he’s just… Standing there. Just looking at him.
Till is still weighing out the cons of giving what might be your coworker the middle finger when someone calls out to him with a wave, and Till recognizes her as the old lady who’d just requested he play Sinatra. Old people seem to love dancing to Sinatra when drunk on five hundred dollar wine. When Till glances back, the man is gone.
Whatever. Till is more worried about the ache in his wrists and the tie and waistcoat they made him wear, tied into a bow at his back. He squints as the notes on the score seem to blend together.
Till deviates from the song anyway, his own little rebellion, the sheet music more a suggestion than a rule.
It only took one day of not getting in trouble for it for Till to get home and begin improvising on every song he’s played so far, adding his own little rendition to them.
Hyuna watches from the doorway, and laughs at him.
“For someone that hates his job, you sure seem to take it seriously.”
“Shut up,” he snaps, “It pays the bills.”
“Whatever you say. I’ll pretend I forgot how you jumped for joy when they hired you.”
“Because I was about to be in debt?!” He hisses, and her laughter sounds throughout his apartment even as she begins to walk off, waving an indulgent hand at him. He revs up a threatening fist, even though she can’t see it.
Because the truth is this: his friends all say he’s a softie. A burnt marshmallow, as Mizi so eloquently worded it once. Soft only on the inside. Till would have called himself a ticking fucking time bomb instead, prone to outbursts and regret that keep him holed up for weeks, sometimes. They always help him through it. He loves them fiercely for it.
He never says any of that though. So he continues to give the only way he knows how: with everything he has, unable to commit to anything half-assedly.
“I ordered food!” Hyuna sing-songs from three rooms over. He would be a little more impressed with her volume and range if he didn’t already get a noise complaint that week, having played songs until early morning just yesterday.
Till practices his version of the stupid fucking Titanic song one more time before getting up, deciding that maybe he was trying too hard for a job he hated.
Till makes his way to the beautiful Fazioli grand when his eyes catch on the stacks of papers folded over the music rack.
Is someone proposing? No, his manager probably would have warned him beforehand. No guest would bring the sheet music with them just for a request, that’s weird. So maybe it’s a warning instead, to follow the rules or whatnot.
So Till skims through the eight or so songs and spends the rest of his afternoon shift working through them, skipping through the few he doesn’t know, veering off the notes now and then, going about it his way up until the last score.
The last one is different. Mostly because it’s a little crinkled at the edges, like someone had gripped it very tightly before smoothing it back down. The notations are made by hand, as well as the arrows attached to notes with handwriting that Till can’t fucking read no matter how much he squints. The title reads Black, and then something else.
He almost wants to add his own little adjustments to it too, but this one feels— personal, somehow. Like this person had composed it with their own emotions in mind, instead of whichever Till thinks fits the song better. Like they’re in the crowd somewhere, waiting hopefully for them to be played by a professional. And Till is far from a professional, but he’s not an asshole, contrary to what Hyuna would say.
Or Dewey. Or Isaac. (Or Mizi, under the influence, when she gets to the point she begins sugarcoating her words instead of just looking awkwardly to the side.)
So he plays it, and if he gets a little emotional during the buildup, that’s his own business.
And it’s Till’s own fault for getting too into it, but it’s only by the end that he notices the shadow looming overhead, and looks up.
The same man from yesterday is standing over him, and Till’s first close-up impression is that the man is too polished, a little inhuman. His smile seems rehearsed, like he’s spent his whole life perfecting it.
His second is that this man is almost egregiously tall. Especially now, with Till sitting down and craning his head just to look him in the eye. It pisses him off a little.
“What?” He says, too sharply, and physically hears the phantom ghost of Mizi say inside voice, Till!— so he adds, softer, “Can I help you?”
The man’s smile widens just a touch. “Hello. I noticed your playing. Do you play often?”
Till can feel his brows furrow. “Yes? I work here.”
Any sort of practiced ease he initially started with dies down for two beats too long. “Of course. I meant– how long have you been playing for?”
“Since…” He inhales through his teeth sharply as he thinks on it. “Elementary school? My guardian made me learn it and it, just. Stuck.”
“You grew to love it, then?”
Till is only a little taken aback at the sudden sincerity. He blinks up at him, absently bends his aching wrist until it cracks with a loud snap. The man’s gaze drops to it and skitters back up so quick Till is almost convinced he imagined it.
“I guess.”
“Your music,” He begins explaining, something genuine in his eyes, the curl of his grin, “I haven’t listened for long, but I can tell it’s not something you learn. You just have it.”
It takes a bit for him to react in any way that’s not just lashing out, and it takes even longer for the rabid thing in his ribs to die down enough for him to speak. This person is not Hyuna or Dewey or Isaac, whom he can fling something at or tell them to die in a hole. It isn’t even Mizi, whose heart is too big and open for him to really snap at.
It’s just— a random stranger. Who’s being nice. It shouldn’t be that weird, but it is, somehow.
Till is sure he’s making a face. He must be, because that initial first impression of the man shifts, the smallest bit. He’s more open, maybe. More human.
“Thanks,” Till says lamely, after way too long. The man’s smile reaches his eyes.
“My name is Ivan,” He says with a little bow. “I work the bar.”
It’s only as Ivan looks off to point a little ways away that Till realizes he is extremely gifted in the art of eye contact. He hadn’t turned away from Till once. It’s a little unnerving.
“Cool.” Till says, at a loss of what to say. “I’m Till.”
Ivan— lights up, or something. It’s nerve-wracking. Till is close to wishing he’d just go away already so he’d stop feeling things.
“Okay.” Then, under his breath: “Till.”
Okay. He’s wrapping this up quick.
“Well, see you, then,” Till says, gesturing not so subtly at the piano as he faces forward. So what if he’s still on break. That’s none of Ivan’s business.
Clearly, he’s overestimated this guy’s ability to read body language. “Do you enjoy working here, Till?”
Till holds back a sigh. “It pays the bills.”
“Hmm,” Ivan hums pleasantly, like he knows something Till doesn’t. “What’s your favorite song to play?”
Till squints up at him. “I’ll think about it once I get back to work.”
“I see,” Ivan nods. A moment passes. He continues to stand there. “And how long until I get to play like you do?”
“Start classes and find out.”
“Hmm. And where did you study it, Till?”
Till huffs out a breath. “Listen, Ivan,” He turns back to Ivan, who smiles agreeably. “I need to get back to work, but I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“Okay, Till,” Ivan smiles, bows again, adds a cheery, “I’ll see you!” Then prances off, back to where he came from. The counter, Till guesses. Where he works.
Till digs his palms against his eyes until he sees stars.
It’s later that night that Mizi stops by this time, a mountain of groceries in hand that she’d brought out of the kindness of her own heart and not because Till is a fucking mess all the time. That’s what she says, anyway. But two things can be true without canceling each other out.
It’s as he’s helping her restock the fridge with milk cartons that he brings up, unprompted, “I got complimented today.”
And it’s– not a big deal, not even in the slightest, but her eyes light up anyway, with pride and something else. Relief, maybe. Till doesn’t want to think on it.
“That’s great! I say this a lot, but you deserve nice things, Till,” Mizi passes over a few boxes of banana milk that definitely weren’t on the list, then adds, “And aren’t you doing exactly what you wanted? Bringing people together with music?”
She might be right, but he’s not about to admit it, so he just grunts as a reply.
They’re working while Mizi talks absently about her day until she gets sidetracked enough to start eating fistfuls of his cereal, straight out the box. Then Till has to shoo her out before she can offer to do his dishes. It was a whole ordeal last time.
It takes him sitting down to review that day’s sheet music to realize they were all love songs.
It took one conversation, one compliment for Till to suddenly notice him everywhere.
Behind the column again, which he doesn’t think he’s realized offers no sort of visual protection. Offering the guests appetizers, of which he sneaks a few for himself. The bar counter, where he’s currently been polishing the same glass for about ten minutes too long, staring into space.
And Till has considered himself unapproachable his whole life. But he plays through the entirety of his thirty minute break in an effort to not look too available, just in case.
So it’s entirely his fault when he gets hungry as shit, but whatever, he’ll still send Ivan death glares because maybe— maybe complimenting a stranger is weird. Weird enough to justify him thinking about it for minutes at a time. And if he thinks, for even a second, of Ivan’s egregiously long eyelashes, all it does it piss him off, really.
His spiraling is proven entirely correct as Ivan manifests beside him again as he’s packing up for the day, like a hell-beast summoned using words of praise.
“Fuck!” Till says, startled, then amends with, “Uh. Hi.”
“Hello! I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t eaten yet,” Ivan smiles before offering him a long carrier bag.
When Till opens it up to look, it has about five or six tupperwares of meat and kimchi and side dishes. Digging deeper, there’s what might be a whole seafood boil in there. What the fuck.
“There’s no way you’re just handing this out.” Till deadpans.
“I made too much food last night.”
It’s such a bold-faced lie that the laugh is shocked out of him, loud and with too much teeth.
“Sure,” He rolls his eyes, “As if someone would just– make a whole seafood boil for shits and giggles. And give it away, even. Are you rich?”
Ivan blinks into awareness. “Define rich.”
“More than three hundred in the bank account.”
“Then, yes. I’m extremely wealthy.”
Till gets the impression he said that more to piss him off than to flaunt, so he just gives his ankle a halfhearted kick. Ivan looks down at himself, like he’s just discovered something incredible.
“Well, I’m not the one giving away free food.” Then, as an afterthought, “Thanks.”
“Thank you!”
“Why are you thanking me? Weirdo.”
When he arrives home, it takes a minute of him changing into his pajamas – therefore leaving Hyuna alone with the seafood – for him to walk back in the kitchen and find her tearing apart a lobster like a wild animal. She’s letting out a warcry and everything.
Till checks his phone. Hey, you like seafood right? His text reads in their group chat, which he can now see she responded with an eloquent FUKC YE, which is answer enough.
Mizi is busy setting up the table and Isaac is frying the meat, to which Dewey is competing with to see who can get closer to the fire without getting burnt, which is. A disaster waiting to happen.
“How did you afford all this?” Hyuna later asks through a mouthful of lobster.
“Some guy I met at work gave it to me.”
At the silence, Till looks up from separating the leftover vegetables on his plate and he’s met with varying levels of smugness.
“Shut the fuck up, he just– likes my music. S’all.”
“He carried all this food. To work. Waited the whole day to give it to you.” Mizi takes the broccoli off the side of Till’s plate, then says, midchew, “I think he at least has a crush.”
“This is more than a crush!” Dewey adds, leaning in close, “This man would take a bullet for you. ”
“I think you’re the one who would take a bullet for him, Dews.”
Dewey shrugs at Isaac, popping a shrimp into his mouth appreciatively. “Close enough. Till, you should seduce rich CEOs more often.”
Till throws a broccoli at his head, then another one at Isaac for laughing. Fuck these guys.
“Is he cute?” Hyuna asks, wiggling her eyebrows.
Till thinks back to his long ass eyelashes and stops the thought there.
“He’s ugly.”
Hyuna boos, but she must see something in his face because she starts talking about how he should open up his heart to people more often.
What they’re both thinking goes unsaid: how Till’s heart is so prone to breaking he keeps it hidden like an open wound. How it sometimes sits so heavy in his chest it feels like his ribcage is crumbling with the weight of holding it in place.
Ivan is ugly.
Till tells himself this as Ivan sits next to him on the piano stool, taking up as much space as possible just to be annoying.
“Which chord was this again?” He presses a finger to A minor for the fifth time.
“Do you have short term memory loss, or are you just stupid?”
“Actually, I have a great memory.”
In an ideal world, where Ivan is a normal person, maybe they could’ve been friends by now. Because that’s usually how it goes, right? After a while, despite any kind of initial differences, they set it aside and find mutual ground.
Unfortunately for Till, Ivan is not a normal person. He is an insufferable bastard, the type to say “well, actually,” in any type of situation, and the person that walks up just to say you look awful and that you should go home if you aren’t feeling well.
In other words, he’s an asshole, and in just a little under a week, Till has long given up on any sort of pleasantries with him. Even now, he’s pointedly ignoring any death glares Till is very unsubtly directing his way.
“Fuck off if you’re gonna be a bother.”
Till tries to shove him off the stool, but the man must be made of bricks because he doesn’t even budge, just looks down at Till like he’s indulging a problem child. Till hates him.
“I’ll be nice.” Ivan flashes his teeth, his snaggletooth catching onto his bottom lip. Till wants to pick him up and put him in a blender. Or something.
“Have you ever been nice a day in your life?”
“I gave you my leftovers.” Ivan puts up a show by pouting, looking oh so very sad, “You didn’t even compliment me.”
“I was– going to! And then a tragedy happened, and I actually met you.” Till huffs. Ivan’s stare doesn’t get any less bothersome with time. “Aren’t you on break? Go annoy someone else.”
“No one else likes me.”
“Well I don’t like you either?!”
“You love me. It’s why you’re teaching me the chords during your break.”
“You–! Be quiet. It’s not like I wanted to.” He pushes at Ivan’s cheek, and he feels rather than sees the grin, this time. Cheeky prick.
Till clicks his tongue, distracting himself by playing a mindless tune. Ivan listens for what feels like a long time before eventually jumping into it, idly playing a few chords here and there that Till soon realizes sounds pleasant and not like he’s just playing out of his ass.
“Have you studied music before?”
Ivan looks a little too delighted to answer, “I have! I was a child actor for a bit and they made me take up a few lessons for a role.”
What. “What.” That was a huge lore dump. “No offense, but why are you working here, then?”
“I’ve worked with a little bit of everything to see what sticks,” Ivan is fucking– manspreading on his stool, what the fuck. “And you? Do you have any dreams, Till?”
And Till — He doesn’t want to have this conversation with half his ass hanging precariously off his stool, surrounded by gaudy displays of luxury, with a man he met just a few weeks ago, but.
But. “Dunno,” he starts. “I just… wanna create. If I have more freedom to do that, all the better.”
He expects something snarky or condescending, because it’s Ivan, but when he turns to look he sees a bit more of the man he’d first met, who was a little in awe of Till’s playing. And Till is reminded, for what feels like the first time, that those men are one in the same.
“What about you?” He says, averting his eyes. “And don’t say something stupid like you wanna change the world.”
“I want to change the world,” Ivan says, clearly just to piss him off. It works, and now Ivan is holding onto Till’s fist with a delighted little smile.
“Nevermind, I shouldn’t have asked,” Till lowers his hand, settling for a shove instead. Ivan lets himself be shoved.
“I don’t have any dreams,” Ivan says, too casual for such a depressing line. “I’m not like you, Till.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?!”
“You have a big heart,” He says, not unkindly. “It’s admirable.”
“Oh,” Till blinks. Turns away quick. “I’m starting to think child stardom messed up your social skills.”
“My sister tells me that all the time!” He says with way too much enthusiasm. “You two should meet! I’m hosting a dinner party with her soon. You can even bring a friend!”
“No, thanks.”
“Fine, Till,” Ivan sighs, like he’s giving up something terrible, “You can bring two friends.”
“That wasn’t the issue!”
He must have sounded too put off, because Ivan’s earlier eagerness dies down a bit. “Next time, then.”
“I’m not going next time, either!”
Ivan laughs, and it later takes Till overthinking on the way to the bus stop to realize it sounded a little strained.
Till looks up at the sky, resists stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to release a less than socially acceptable scream, and manages to sigh instead.
“I hate him,” Till says to Hyuna back at home as he lays down on the sofa. He can’t even say she’s freeloading at this point, since there’s nothing in his apartment for her to actually take.
Till stands entirely corrected as she appears overhead, stuffing her face with cold pizza.
“You can’t just start all your sentences like that,” Hyuna says, midchew. “I never know who you’re talking about.”
“It’s Ivan, who else?”
“I don’t know who that is.” It takes a second. Then– “Oh! The ugly guy who bought me lobster?”
“He didn’t buy you lobster, but yes.” Till huffs. “He’s so annoying. Won’t leave me alone. Even asked me to— go to his dinner party, or something.”
“It sounds like you made a friend.”
“God, I hope not,” Till says wearily, “He said something about meeting his sister. Kinda sounded like he wanted to set me up with her.”
“Ooh, double the options,” Hyuna teases, lifting Till’s legs off the couch before sitting down and setting them on her lap.
“Fuck off,” He hisses, “Should have never– come out to you, or whatever.”
“I could literally smell it on you the second we met.”
“That’s not how that works?!” Till takes advantage of their position and kicks her. Way more lightly than she deserves.
Hyuna sits unphased, staring at him like she’s trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. She slowly lifts the slice of pizza up to her mouth. Chews thoughtfully.
“I don’t know why you think you’re so unlovable,” She says, entirely unprompted. “You simply cannot fathom the idea of someone being into you.”
“I don’t need anyone, anyway,” He says, then cringes at his own words. They feel like the truth, but it also feels a little bit too much like he’s clawing out and exposing his own insides.
“Hum,” Hyuna hums in disapproval. “So, are you going?”
“Going where?”
“To the dinner party?”
“Hell no!”
“Damn. The journey to self awareness is a tough one, huh.” She looks him in the eyes, mouths pussy, then proceeds to shove the rest of the pizza slice into her mouth, dusting the crumbs over her shorts.
Till just releases his pent-up scream from earlier, and she curses just as loud. The third ensuing noise complaint that week is worth the look on her face.
Ivan misses work for the first time.
It shouldn’t be a problem. It shouldn’t, but Till had been all jittery until halfway through the day before he realized what he’d been doing.
It sounds absurd, to realize he hadn’t been being watched and felt weird about it. If voiced to any one of his friends, they’d all agree he’s the freak instead of Ivan, and if voiced to Ivan—
He doesn’t even want to think about it.
And so what if he had looked for him? It’s perfectly normal to worry about a coworker. Till is the most normal he’s ever been, even, without Ivan around to pester him.
(If he worried, for even a second, that Ivan had lost interest in him, it was just an intrusive thought and entirely his own business. To be taken to the grave. Buried alive.)
He thinks back to what Hyuna said, shakes it away just as quick. If, and only if Ivan thought anything of Till at all, the problem still lies in Till. The problem will always lie in Till.
And so, like most things, this is Hyuna’s fault. Till thinks this as he approaches the bar counter, hoping the hesitation doesn’t show on his face.
For a second he doesn’t see anyone, but before he can think about speed walking the opposite direction, Ivan appears with a tray tucked under his arm, sweat building over his temples.
“Till,” He greets through shallow breaths. He wipes a hand over his brow, and Till looks away quickly. “Did you need something?” He looks Till up and down almost imperceptibly, then settles for a cheeky, “Did you miss me?”
Oh, god. Till is regretting this already. “No, you egotistical dick.”
Till knows he’s been tricked the moment he annoyedly looks forward and finds Ivan’s gaze has softened. Because for all that he’s annoying, Ivan always picks up on Till’s small nuances, often teasing him into letting loose, and the same applies to his current anxiety. He’s not even sure what gave it away.
Till wishes he wasn’t a man who loosened up through shouting, but it’s all he’s ever known.
“What, then?”
Till decides to start it off slow. Or rather, had decided this already, back at home when he’d rehearsed this entire conversation in his bathroom mirror.
“Why’d you not come yesterday?”
Except he’d already thrown that entire imaginary exchange out the window the moment something in his brain compels him with the need for answers.
There’s a whispered oh my god, then a giddy, “So you did miss me!”
“No–! You know what, nevermind, fuck your dinner party.”
He’s about to run away, but a hand keeps him in place. For some reason, he suddenly doesn’t have the strength to look up from his shoes.
At the silence he looks up and is met with Ivan’s blank expression. Then he smiles, slow and giddy, all-teeth, and he looks a little less like the very normal and well adjusted person he’d been trying to make himself out to be and a little more like the godless freak Till always knew he was.
“Till,” Ivan breathes around the name.
“Nevermind, you need to be studied under a microscope,” Till says, unprompted, already turning around when a hand pulls him back by the stupid bow he ties around his waist every morning. He’d argued against it, but his manager was very insistent for reasons beyond him.
“No, no, Till,” Ivan says, laughing, the bow coming undone in his hands. He stares down at the ribbon for a second too long, like he’s about to stuff it in his pocket and run for it. Till moves to snatch it back, but Ivan is quick to hang it up over his head like an asshole.
“You didn’t even fucking answer me?!” Till claws at Ivan’s extended arm.
“Do you like samgyeopsal?” Ivan asks, stepping around him to tie the ribbon around his waist. Till’s protests fall on deaf ears. “Gopchang?” Ivan steps back to straighten his tie for him. “Soy sauce crab?” He smooths out Till’s waistcoat once, twice. His hands linger.
Till can’t yell the thousand profanities that come to mind; It’s the middle of a busy work day. His manager might be watching. There are, like, kids nearby. Till tells himself this even as Ivan smiles, satisfied. Pats Till’s head, for no fucking reason.
“Hands off,” He hisses, swatting him away like he would a pesky bug. “Answer the damn question.”
“Weird. I vaguely recall making three more questions than you.”
“I asked first?!” Till says, realizes he sounds childish, then amends with, “And this isn’t a competition!”
“It isn’t, because I’m winning.”
“You–!” He groans, pulling at his hair. “I like all three!”
“Which do you like the most?”
“Tteokbokki.”
He’d said another thing entirely just to annoy him, but Ivan looks like he’s filing it away for future inspection. Till definitely hates him.
“Can you give me your number?” Ivan lifts a hand up to Till’s hair and gets as far as smoothing down his fringe before Till swats at him. “So I can send you the details.”
Till is vaguely under the impression he’s being tricked. “Why should I?” He’s saying, but he pulls out his phone anyway. “Just… promise not to send me any weird shit.”
Ivan bites his lip to suppress a smile, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. It should have been Till’s first warning.
Unknown [9:02 PM]
Hi Till!!!! This is Ivan!
☆*:.｡.o(≧▽≦)o.｡.:*☆
Did you get home okay?
What are you doing right now?
You [11:33 PM]
wtf
what did i tell u abt mssg me
big idiot [11:33 PM]
Till!!!
I’m just wondering how my coworker is doing!
╰(▔ᗜ▔)╯
You [11:35 PM]
that looks like u
big idiot [11:35 PM]
Sdgjksd
Till48gkkjkjsdkfj
You [11:36 PM]
?
big idiot [11:38 PM]
Hehe sorry, wrong chat
But, this looks like you!
[ Image description: a fat bug sitting on a bench. There’s a finger pointing to it from out of frame.]
You [11:40 PM]
????
why is it daytime in that pic
were you waiting to send that
also wtf does that mean
big idiot [11:41 PM]
It’s just you
[ Image description: It’s Ivan from the shoulders up. He’s flashing the camera a heart sign. He’s shirtless, and his collarbones are fully exposed.]
And this is me
You [11:44 PM]
JKSSBKDFJHSHKHJSK?????
?????????????????
GOODBYE IVAN
“Who is that?”
Till quickly shuts off his phone, hides the screen in his chest. Hyuna continues to ogle at where it once was.
“It’s no one!”
“Was that Ivan? The one you said was ugly?”
“I fucking said it was no one!”
His phone buzzes repeatedly from his chest. Till ignores it the whole night.
Till rests his forehead against the wall and breathes.
A hand settles on his back, and he knows it’s supposed to be comforting but Till also knows better. Till can read between the lines. Till knows it’s also a we’re already here, so please get your shit together.
Mizi could say that, but instead she says, “Till… I don’t know what you think will happen, but it won’t be that bad! Just be yourself!”
“Well maybe that’s the problem.”
“Till!” She chastises. She does that a lot. “If he invited you here it’s because he likes you. I can’t say how much, but from what I’ve heard it’s quite a bit!”
“The hell has Hyuna been telling you?”
“Um…” She looks awkwardly to the side. Till can’t see her, but he knows she is. “Just a little bit…”
Till pushes himself off the wall with a groan. “I’m just not made for these sorta places.”
They’ve stood around for so long that the hallway’s automatic lights flicker off. Till makes a lazy gesture. They turn back on.
“Well, this is also my first time meeting these people. We’re both struggling!”
“Mizi, you’re a social butterfly. They’ll love you.”
“Aw, thank you, Till,” Mizi grins, already sidetracked. She then blinks into awareness. “Not the point! You know what, I’m ringing the doorbell.”
Till associates too late. The doorbell rings, and in only a few seconds there are eager footsteps approaching. First betrayal of the night. Till is doomed.
The door swings open. “Till!” Ivan sing-songs.
Till blinks. Ivan is dressed in fitted slacks and a black button-up, bunched up at the elbows. One half of Till recognizes it’s obnoxiously made of cashmere. The other half of Till he is ignoring.
Once Ivan looks away, his smile becomes a lot more measured. “And his friend. Please, come in.”
Ivan opens the door wider and Mizi shuffles inside first, shakes his hand with too much enthusiasm, “Nice to meet you! I’m Mizi, Till’s friend!”
“Hello, Mizi,” Ah, Ivan has reverted back into his people pleasing smile. The kind he uses to hide into himself. “I’m Ivan. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me!”
Till walks in last, looking down at his shoes.
“Till,” Ivan greets.
Till looks up and finds it easier to look away, to look instead at the space around him, the shadows against the pane of his neck. Ivan looks a little dangerous but in a harmless way, like a huge gangly bug. A six-foot stick insect, hovering around his own home.
“Ivan,” Till says in lieu of a greeting.
Ivan’s smile widens, strangely jittery. “Aren’t you going to shake my hand, Till? How impolite of you.”
For a second Till only stares at Ivan’s outstretched hand. Shakes it, begrudgingly.
His hand loosens, but Ivan tightens his hold. “Let go,” he grumbles.
“This is how men measure each other’s strength, Till. And by the looks of it, you don’t have much.”
“You!” Till then tightens his hold of Ivan’s hand with all the strength he can muster. “Asshole! How’s that!”
“Very good,” Ivan simply lets go, pleased with himself. Till has the vague impression he’s been tricked. “Come in, you two.”
They walk further inside, and there’s a ghost of a hand over his back, guiding him forward. Till doesn’t quite jump, but it’s a near thing.
A head pops around the kitchen wall. “Ivan,” the woman greets. It must be his sister— they look too much alike. They have the same resting bored face and everything, though Ivan makes more of an effort to hide it most times.
“Sua,” He says back. “This is Till, and this is his friend, Mizi.”
Mizi walks out from behind Till, and he watches as a small, careful thing flickers through her eyes. Till has known her long enough to recognize it. He pushes her forward by her back, a little nudge of presence, and it’s enough to have her gulp in a big breath of courage.
“Nice to meet you!” She says, grinning wide. “Thank you for having me in your home!”
Till watches as Sua steps into the hall and her whole disposition changes with her smile. “No, no, thank you for coming.”
Till risks a glance at Ivan, and he sees something in him he hasn’t seen before. Understanding, maybe. Relief. A new side to him.
Ahh— Hyuna is going to give him so much shit for thinking Ivan was setting him up with his gay sister.
“I’ll go set the table,” Ivan says, moving to step into the kitchen.
“I’ll help!”
Ivan pulls up a hand, “We can’t have our guests helping in a party we invited them to, can we, Sua?”
“Of course not,” She says, strangely icy. They’re having some sort of weird telepathic conversation with their eyes Till won’t even pretend to understand.
“Are you sure?” Mizi insists, because she’s nice like that.
“We’re sure. There are appetizers in the kitchen, please help yourselves,” Ivan smiles, guiding them forward.
Ivan steps out once he takes all the necessary cutlery from the pantry, gesturing one last time to the laid out deviled eggs and breadsticks and stuffed mushrooms. Mizi waves him out, waits until he’s completely out of sight. Takes one look at Till, her jaw already dropped.
“Till!”
“I know.”
“Did you see?”
“I did.”
“She was,” She leans back against the kitchen counter. Stuffs an entire deviled egg in her mouth in lieu of talking. Talks midchew anyway, “She was… She was so pretty, Till.”
“Talk to her, you’re good at that.”
“Not when it’s pretty girls, Till,” She emphasizes, word for word. “Dammit, Till,” She slouches. Grabs another egg, seemingly out of spite. “Now we’re both really in the same boat.”
Till just hums, noncommittal, if only not to say something stupid like this is only a fraction of my daily anxiety.
“Well, at least the appetizers are good?” Mizi offers.
“No they’re not,” He says, stubborn. Takes another breadstick, anyway.
“No, they’re not,” Mizi sighs, defeated. Shoves an entire stuffed mushroom in her mouth.
Soon they’re being called into the kitchen and it doesn’t take five minutes for Mizi to let loose and gravitate towards Sua’s side.
Till predicted this. He predicted it, isn’t even mad about it, but he still considers it the second betrayal of the night anyway because he’s allowed to be a little petty.
Here he is, sitting opposite them, forced to watch them— canoodle, or something, while Ivan pesters him with this and that; Do you like this, Till? , and you dressed up today, Till, and do you like hotteok, Till?, which isn’t even on the damn table. He’s going to bite his head off.
Till doesn’t even know why he’s so flustered, is the thing, and it just aggravates him further, until eventually it becomes so much that Till scampers away to curl himself in the nearest bathroom.
Whatever. Who needs Ivan’s soft tofu stew when tap water offers such a deliciously sulfurous depth of flavor? Till doesn’t.
Except he can’t stay in this bathroom forever. He has work on monday. Hyuna might miss him for their saturday mockings of random reality shows. Ivan might think he’s taking a shit, which should not be embarrassing but it is, somehow, and the thought just makes him want to hide away even more.
After a moment or two he stands up. Fakes a flush. Washes his hands, dries them. Runs a hand through his hair. Feels stupid about it, ruffles it back to how it was. Washes his hands again.
When he walks back out, he feels like a different person. The same person, really, but stupider. He can only hope it doesn’t show on his face.
“Till,” Ivan brightens as Till steps back into the dining room, so much he has to look away.
Till scrambles to make reassuring eye contact with Mizi from across the table, and he actually succeeds except she just sends him a cheeky wink. Till hates her.
“Why do you look like that?” Ivan asks, patting the seat beside him invitingly.
Begrudgingly, Till sits. “Like what?”
“Like someone just told you your ass is flat.”
“Shut up,” he hisses, watching Ivan pile slices of meat onto Till’s plate, very intentionally ignoring his glare.
Ivan then scoots the plate of tteokbokki closer to Till placatingly. It looks so out of place among the much fancier dishes that Till feels the fight leave him in its ridiculousness.
“You seriously got tteokbokki?” Till huffs out a laugh. “Silly.”
“Of course I did,” Till will never get used to this side of Ivan— the one where his honesty shows on his face. “You asked for it.”
“Out of spite. Idiot.” Till piles some onto his plate anyway. Ivan hums, pleased.
Dinner progresses and the initial awkwardness dies down with Mizi and Ivan’s competing charisma. Till had no idea if Ivan and Mizi would ever get along, but just five minutes in he thinks they’re already halfway to becoming friends. He’s more and more convinced that being an extrovert is a god-given gift.
Then the topic of Till came up, and the whole dinner started careening downhill for him.
“Mizi,” Despite calling her, his gaze flits back to Till for just a second. First warning. “So how long have you and Till known each other?”
Mizi chews through a generous spoonful of gopchang before speaking, “Since middle school! He sat behind me in class, and we’ve been friends ever since.” Ivan hums amicably, and she adds, “And you and Sua? You’re both siblings, right?”
“Yes. We used to argue a lot, but she took good care of me.”
Despite Mizi and Ivan knowing each other for all of thirty minutes, it feels like they’re perfectly in tune. Like this is a scripted conversation. A poorly orchestrated evil scheme of sorts. Till exchanges a weighted look with Sua, who just shakes her head.
Mizi nods, expression too serious for their casual topic. “Till, too, he used to get into a lot of fights with the other kids. He stopped around the time he got serious about music, though.” She then adds, for no reason, “Though that was after his emo phase.”
Ivan turns to Till for an explanation, but he’d been shoving the equivalent of three lettuce wraps into his mouth to avoid speaking.
“Really?” He says, too calculated. “Funny. Sua got into modeling at probably around the same time.”
“You were a model, Sua?” Mizi gushes, and the two exchange hushed, whispered words. It’s hard to tell, but they might be holding hands under the table. They look so impossibly fond. Till is happy for them.
“Mizi?” Ivan calls out. Mizi startles into awareness, and she reverts back into serious mode. There’s a glimmer in her eye that’s only there when she’s scheming.
“Forgive me. Anyway, Till dressed like a delinquent and got in trouble for being late a lot, but it was actually because he’s not a morning person and slept through at least three of his alarms.”
“Sua has a fixed morning routine and makes a mean scrambled egg. Will probably bring you breakfast in bed, if asked nicely.”
“Till received quite a few love letters in his shoebox but never accepted any of them. He’s a romantic like that.”
“Question,” Ivan interjects.
“Yes, Ivan!” Mizi calls out with game-host gusto.
Ivan looks a little like he’s laying out questions in his head, but then he incomprehensibly settles with, “Is Till ticklish?”
Mizi, equally as incomprehensible, cheerily answers, “Excellent question! He is, in fact, ticklish!”
Till chokes, just a little. Swats Ivan away when he starts patting his back.
“What the fuck, Mizi?”
“Noted.” Ivan hums, as if Till never spoke. “Sua is not, but she blushes easily. I’ve seen it.” He says it like he’s narrating an urban legend.
“Ivan.” Sua warns.
“I’m getting out of here,” Till stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly in his haste. Ivan looks like he’s about to protest or worse, follow him, so he points back with a threatening, “Don’t follow me!”
“Till,” He calls out, but Till has already taken three large steps across the room.
Of course, he didn’t actually leave. That would be rude. Till is many things, and rude is probably one of them, but he’s not rude enough to leave someone’s dinner party without proper notice.
So he’s on Ivan’s balcony instead, resting his arms over the railing. It’s a nice night. Till tips his head up and takes in a breath so large it aches.
He stays there long enough for the chill to settle, counting the ongoing cars underneath him, all dimmed by streetlight. Six cars. Not a very busy neighborhood, then.
He hears the door slide open behind him before the thing in his chest gets to untangle itself into something manageable. Hears Ivan slip in beside him. Feels the weight of his stare, so familiar at this point it’s almost comfortable.
And Till, for some inexplicable reason, meets it head on, for what feels like the first time. Ivan’s eyes are catching the light of the streetlamps, roving syrupy slow over his face, as if trying to take all of it in.
“Ivan.”
He drags his eyes up to meet Till’s. Hums again, a question.
“Why’d you follow me?”
“I wanted to.” Ivan looks like he wants to say more. Doesn’t. Leans against the railing, just watching him.
Ivan always settles for not-answers. It’s the most frustrating thing. Ivan is a frustrating thing: never someone who can be categorized, or understood.
And by all means, he was almost crafted to be someone Till hates, his counterpart: unpredictable, hard to read, calculating. He pushes Till's buttons for the hell of it. Knows what he wants, without him having to say it. Forces him to say what he means anyway.
Really, he should hate Ivan. But still, he lets him annoy him, comes to his dinner party, stays with him on a chilly balcony. Thinks about him when he shouldn’t.
“Why do you—” Till makes an aborted, frustrated noise. Gestures to the entirety of Ivan. “Why do you do that?”
Ivan blinks. Then, to Till’s horror, he starts laughing, openly and unabashedly. It’s a terrible laugh, too stilted, too loud, more a bark than anything.
And yet— It’s so Ivan that when Till also laughs, it sounds a little terrible, too.
“Do what?” Ivan is grinning, all-teeth.
“Y’know,” Till catches himself, frowns to keep from smiling. “Just, look at me. Follow me. Like a creep, or something.”
“Is that what I look like?”
“Yes,” Till says, too quick.
Ivan looks like he’s searching for what to say, and isn’t that a novelty.
He settles with, “I like being with you.”
An even bigger novelty.
“Do you not realize what you sound like right now?”
Ivan shrugs. “Would you rather I lie to you?”
Till huffs, rolling his eyes. Doesn’t say anything, if only to not give Ivan the satisfaction.
And Till isn’t sure why he says it, only that he wants to hear the answer so much he feels it bubble up before he can think it. Like if he were to open up his chest, Ivan would be gentle with what he finds.
“What’s there to like?” He says. It comes out smaller than he’d wanted it to.
Ivan just looks at him for what feels like a long time.
“So much.”
Another not-answer.
The anger in him surges, a familiar thing, “Whatever, forget I fucking said anything.”
Ivan looks at him, searching for something.
“I don’t like to share much of myself to others,” Ivan starts, and it feels like the first time Till has seen him actually look away from him so purposely. A car passes by, then two. “Not like you do. And Till, you do it so readily, you don’t even notice. You always give so much of yourself away.”
And because Till sputters and his throat has gone dry, he can’t manage anything besides a snappy, “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
“But it is,” And because Ivan has seemingly run out of words, he just says again, nonsensically, “It is.”
Till thinks he might have given too much of himself away as they speak. But Ivan says it like it’s something good, something special. And Till has never been special. Never been proud, only prideful. Has only ever been mediocre at music and talking and loving.
But it’s a chilly night and he risks a glance at the boy beside him and is only a little appalled that maybe he’s not that ugly.
That maybe he’s not so bad, after all.
“You’re weird,” He says, because it’s safer than saying any of the terrible revelations he can think up.
“Just for you.”
“I hate that.”
“You done?”
Till looks up from smoothing out the keyboard cover. Ivan stands over him, still in uniform.
“Yeah.”
He’s about to ask why when his eyes meet the clock hanging over the entry to the bar lounge. It’s almost eleven, which means his shift ended over half an hour ago and he had just been meanderingly playing since.
He raises his arms into a stretch, ruffles up his styled fringe so it hangs loose over his forehead. Ivan reaches over to run his fingers through the tangles. Till just lets him.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“S’whatever,” Till grumbles.
He feels Ivan pull away and opens his eyes to find him just looking at him. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them.
“You want another lift home?”
“It’s okay. I’ll just get an uber.”
Ivan hums. “You want tteokbokki?”
“What?” He huffs out an almost-laugh. Considers it. “Maybe.”
Ivan hums again, pleased this time.
In the breakroom, Till undoes his tie and shrugs off his polyester vest, stuffing it haphazardly into his bag. He imagines Ivan would fold it neatly because he’s an overachiever like that, but Till doesn’t care because he won’t do his laundry until tomorrow, anyway.
“You want me to fold that for you?” Ivan asks on cue from across the room. Till by now has become so used to his staring that he thinks he’d feel weirder without it.
“It’s fine,” He shrugs. Adds, “Weirdo,” because he’d sounded too soft the first time.
He scrolls through his phone in lieu of filling the silence, watches as Ivan does the same. He stays like that for a bit, just to see what he’ll do, what he’ll say, but he never says anything at all.
Just waits.
Ivan didn’t have to stay with him all this time. Didn’t have to wait until well over his shift for Till to finish playing, never interrupting once. Didn’t have to do any of the confusing things he’s done in all the time he’s known him and yet, incredibly, he has.
And if there’s one thing Till learned, it’s that Ivan is not the most honest of people— Says whatever he wants, retains information, talks so little about himself— but he’s never once lied to Till.
“Ivan,” He says, ten minutes into staring at his blank screen. Sets it aside.
“Hum?”
And because he’s so terrible at talking and self-preservation in general, he asks, “Do you like me?”
And because Ivan is Ivan, he’s gentle when he says, unaffectedly, “I do.”
“No, I mean,” Till sighs with his whole chest, “I mean. Fuck, you know what I mean!”
Till has never had to confess: not to Mizi, his crush all throughout middle school, or the two or so nameless not-crushes he’s had since. Maybe, for people like Ivan, this sort of thing is normal. Till cannot decide if there are other people like Ivan in the world.
But then something flickers in his eyes, understanding and devastation and something else, and his brows are furrowed in a way that says so much. He’s looking at Till, really looking.
“I think,” Till says, stops. Looks away. Looks back, because Ivan deserves that much. “I think I also— Maybe!” He adds quickly because he’s sure Ivan is making a face and the embarrassment is also starting to settle into his bones a little. “Maybe. You know. With you.”
Ivan doesn’t say anything, just makes a sound that could be called wounded.
“Till,” He utters, with something like reverence.
Ivan just stares, for a moment. A little bit in shock. A lot in awe. And it feels— different, from the other ones. Almost as if before, Till was just a thing to be admired. And now, Ivan is really seeing him for the first time.
“Well, are you going to fucking say it back or what?” Till says, when too much time has passed.
And then Ivan is walking across the room. In three steps, he’s already in front of Till.
“Till,” He says, then again, “Till,” unsure what he’s trying to confirm. He looks so young like this. Torn open. Scraped raw. “I fell for you ever since I heard you playing your own song instead of whatever they were making you play, on your first week on the job.”
There. Laid down, plain and simple. He didn’t think Ivan was capable of it.
He can’t even begin to imagine what he looks like right now. Stupid, maybe. Small. He feels his mouth wobble into a not-smile.
Then Ivan adds, “I was worried they’d fire you and I’d have to hunt you down for sport,” and he’s unsure why he bothered with him, really.
“You’re so fucking weird,” Till says, but there’s less fire to it than he’d wanted. “But… you like me?”
“I do.” Ivan says, his voice growing tiny, but with something like a fierce surety.
“...For my personality?”
“Yes,” He says, but he sounds like he can barely hear himself. “I was surprised too.”
Till moves to shove at his chest but Ivan remains firmly in place, so Till doesn’t move his hands away either. Ivan holds onto them, keeping them there, just loosely enough that Till could pull away, if he wanted. He looks amazed when Till doesn’t.
And Till isn’t sure why he does it, only that he likes this look of wide-eyed wonder Ivan gets when he’s around. That there’s a weird hunger confusing his head and hands and heart. That Ivan, despite being so easy in his affections, is always so dishonest with himself it almost hurts to watch.
In a strange surge of confidence, Till pulls him in by the collar, swallows up the funny sound Ivan makes once they kiss; a little bit of a breath, a little bit of a whimper. And it feels all wrong at first: not enough movement, both their eyes stubbornly open. But Till tilts his head just so, cradles Ivan’s head just right, that Ivan awakens from his stupor and grabs whatever part of Till he can touch.
Ivan starts by pulling him roughly by the neck, raking his nails through his hair, sliding a hand under his shirt and up the dip in his spine, grinning madly once Till lets a shiver slip.
Till pulls him back roughly by his hair, a fistful of it, leaving just enough space to let himself breathe and an unsaid warning of behave, Ivan— only a little satisfied once Ivan whines. Less so when Ivan then licks his jaw all the way up to the apple of his cheek, like the fucking freak he is.
“Ivan,” Till says, more breath than word, trying to get a good look at him.
“Till,” Ivan makes a throaty whine around the name, pulls him close by his waist and caresses at the skin there, where no one has ever touched him. “Till, Till, Till,” He draws in a deep, shuddering breath, “God, god.”
And it’s— ridiculous, how eager he looks, when they’re just kissing, just touching. Till probably looks a little ridiculous himself. He might have even been embarrassed about it before. But because it’s Ivan, and because Ivan is so over the top, loving with so much of himself— Till thinks maybe it’s okay to be a little ridiculous, too.
Ivan slows down to something a little less desperate and manic, and when he draws Till back in, kissing all slow and careful, hand trailing up and under the sleeve of Till’s shirt, it feels a little bit like reverence. Worship. Ivan sighs, a little hum of satisfaction slipping, and Till tucks the sound close.
“I like you so much, Till,” Ivan sighs, speaking just against his mouth, sounding a little wounded. “Like you. Like you so much. Till,” They part so he can nuzzle into Till’s neck, “Like you so much.”
“Okay, I got it, damn,” Till says, feigning annoyance, except he’s tilting his neck for easier access. Ivan only lets out a knowing hum, like he knows Till’s secret and finds it cute instead of terrible.
Except leaving Ivan to his own devices is awful, because he’ll do something stupid like biting down onto Till’s shoulder or licking it better or both.
So when Till punches him on the back of his head, it’s entirely deserved, really.
“You weirdo, were you ever going to tell me you like me?” Till asks, if only to not call attention to how he must look right now.
“No,” Ivan says, too quick.
“What the fuck?” Till says. Now he’s just offended. “Why the fuck not?”
“You’re too cute for me, Till.”
There’s something there. Something Till should be reading between the lines. Unfortunately, he’s not studied enough in Ivan to pick up the bullshit he’s putting down.
“Were you just going to— What? Stay in this weird fucking, like, situationship or whatever, just— forever?”
Ivan slow blinks. A yes, then.
“Asshole,” He mumbles. He sounds way too shaky for his liking.
“This is— hardly a situationship,” Ivan looks like he’s bordering on laughter. “We kissed once. Like, five minutes ago.”
“That’s enough!” Till sputters, “To count it as one!”
“You’re cute,” Ivan grabs hold of Till’s arm, as if he can’t keep himself from not holding him anymore. He wraps a finger around Till’s belt loop, looks a little cheeky as he uses it to pull him flush against him.
“Condescending asshole,” Till fights against him only a little bit, just enough to not completely shatter his dignity.
For a moment he’s dipping down and Till is convinced they’re going to kiss again, but he just presses their foreheads together. It’s so uncharacteristically soft. Till catches himself thinking that, and realizes that maybe it’s not uncharacteristic at all.
“Cute, cute, cute,” Ivan mutters, more to himself than anything. “So cute, my Till.”
And Till flushes, about to protest, but the fight leaves him as quickly as it came. It doesn’t sound so bad, after all.
“Can I drive you home, now?”
Till turns away. Ivan tilts his head back toward him, so Till averts his eyes instead.
“Yes,” he grumbles. Ivan is beaming. “Can you. Still get us tteokbokki.”
“Yes,” he says, too eager.
“Cool.”
“Very cool,” Ivan says, all jittery. “I like you.”
“I know.”
Ivan’s smile widens so impossibly he wonders how he can still get any words past it.
“Very much.”
“I know!”
Till pushes him off. Regrets it. Grabs onto his hand.
He’s not very good at this, he knows it, and yet Ivan is hanging onto his every word, tucking them all away for safekeeping. He’s looking at Till like he’s something to be cherished. And for someone that has always pushed and prodded, Ivan is so terribly patient when he needs to be.
“...Tell me more about it in the car?”
And when Ivan tightens his hold, it feels like the beginning of something.
“Can we make out inside?”
“What?! No!”
“Next time, then.”
“There’s no fucking next time!”