Work Text:
── .✦
When Till decided that working at Sweet Dream Café was a job he wanted to spend three working days a week of his college life on, he was not informed of the flirtatious hijinks he’d be getting into. More specifically, the flirtatious hijinks Ivan would be getting into.
“He’s doing it again,” Till seethes, aggressively mopping up spilt coffee by the end of the room as he glares in Ivan’s direction.
Sua looks up from where she’s noting down her current customer’s orders, unimpressed. “Yeah, Till, that’s kind of his job.”
“His job is to seat guests onto a table politely and give them their goddamn checks, not to—”
“Engage in completely harmless and ‘highly encouraged by our manager' flirtatious banter?” Sua hums, as Till swivels to face her, aghast.
“Since when were you ever on his side?”
“Since I realised that he was shockingly not going to be the most annoying part of this job. His nagging roommate playing jealous boyfriend on the other hand…”
“I’m not jealous. I’m concerned about his lack of workplace etiquette.” Till says, desperately keeping his tone deadpan.
Sua raises an eyebrow, “Didn’t deny being his boyfriend, huh?”
Till scoffs, “As if there’s a point in doing that.” Ivan and he most certainly weren’t dating, but absolutely no colleague of theirs has ever bothered to believe him whenever he’s attempted to tell them. Thus, he’s just given up on trying to convince them otherwise at this point.
“Listen, Till, as much as I love having to hear you drone on and on about how Ivan winking at every breathing organism who walks into here upsets you, I have tables to wait on. Don’t you?” She asks, narrowing her eyes at the man, while not-so-subtly glancing down at her ‘Assistant Manager’ badge and back up at Till in reminder.
Till rolls his eyes, grunting out an apology before sticking the now wrung mop back into its bucket. As he made his way past Ivan’s table, he tries his best to mentally prepare for Ivan’s spouting bullshit.
“So, one Aglio e Olio, and one Crème Brûlée Cronut. Both excellent choices indeed. However, ladies, I did happen to notice that neither of you ordered any drinks. An absolute crime,” Ivan says, his soft voice dipping into a deeper tone as he gets to the last sentence. The two women at the table laugh amicably, one of them noticeably laughing a little too loudly.
Till wanted to die.
“You’re right, how dare we commit such a dastardly deed?” One of them says, between giggles, as Till resists rolling his eyes. Were these two plucked right out of a college improv troupe?
“It’s a punishable offence,” Ivan agrees, playing along effortlessly. Till feels himself mentally snap, retying the back of his apron for the third time.
Having to subject me to this should be considered a punishable offence—
“What would you recommend then, uh, Ivan ?”
Oh brother.
“Well, a Blueberry Mocha-Whip Frappé would certainly bring out your eyes, Miss. And as for the mesmerising hazelnut-eyed individual next to you… Well, should be obvious, shouldn’t it?” Ivan chuckles. He notes down exactly what he says, not bothering to wait for their response, because he knows they’ll order it.
“We’ll take that and the Hazelnut Latté then— but you already knew that,” The blue-eyed girl says, seemingly having also noticed Ivan writing down their drink orders in advance.
Till barely registers the next customer walking in through the door, hardly pays heed to the order he was writing down, or whatever non-order related thing his table happened to be saying, too busy paying rapt attention to whatever the hell Ivan was saying to those damning customers.
He slumps towards the back, handing out the order slips to one of the cooks, stumbling through overstacked clean dishes. As he begins to walk back, a hand is placed on his shoulder, stopping him.
“Uh, dude. What exactly is this supposed to be?” The cook asks, raising an eyebrow with mild concern as he wafts the bill back in Till’s peripheral vision. Till squints at his scraggly handwriting.
“Letters,” He manages, coherently.
“You don’t say,” The cook drawls, unimpressed.
The back door swings open, and Till feels a chill run through his spine. “It says ‘Toasted White Mocha’, I believe,” Ivan says, thoughtfully. Till yelps at his sudden appearance, turning to glare at the man. Unsurprisingly, Ivan’s already staring right back at him, his eyes gleaming.
The cook sighs with relief, “Thanks, Ivan. You’re the only one who can translate whatever the hell Till writes on these sometimes.”
“Hey!” Till squawks, feeling himself flush with embarrassment, “I’m— Ugh, I’m sorry. I’ll try to pay better attention to how I write, man, it must be frustrating,” He mumbles, guiltily. The cook only nods before walking off with Ivan’s bills to start cooking.
Till feels black hair rubbing against his cheek, and resists a tired, albeit fond, sigh, “Anything you want to say to me before we get back out there?” He says, bracing himself for Ivan’s inevitable teasing.
Ivan only smiles—that awful, work smile of his, as he stands back upright, “Hm, my constructive criticism, you mean? Maybe you need to spend less time ogling me and more time paying attention to your orders,” He says, gleefully.
“O-Ogling?! You and I both know that that was far from what I was doing,” Till hisses, slapping Ivan’s shoulder, “Bastard,” He adds, for good measure.
Ivan’s eye slightly twitches because obviously, he’s above flinching, “Oh really? Then why did I hear you fake gag while I took those lovely ladies’—”
“Eugh,” Till shudders. Ivan gives up on completing his sentence, smirking in a case and point sort of way.
“Not that I need to explain myself to you, but it’s sickening.” Till huffs, grabbing his notepad out of his apron’s pocket before heading back out the door.
“What is? Me doing my job ?”
“This is why people think you and Sua are related, by the way,” Till groans.
“What does that have anything to do with— Ah, so you voiced these concerns out to poor Sua, did you?” Ivan realises, with a grin.
“Again, that’s none of your business. And you doing your job doesn’t mean you play every customer that walks in here like a damn fiddle. Have some backbone or something,” Till chastises, wagging a finger at Ivan with mild disapproval.
“So that’s your problem, is it? That I’m being disingenuous?” Ivan asks, with a certain air of mischief in his tone. Till suddenly doesn’t feel as if he has the upper hand in this conversation anymore.
“I guess it is,” Till mumbles, not feeling as sure as he did mere moments ago. That was the problem, wasn’t it? So why did it not sound like it coming from Ivan’s mouth?
“Alright, duly noted. Now come here, you’ve left your bow untied.”
Till pauses, letting Ivan catch up to him instead as the taller man carefully ties the straps of his apron together into a neat bow, pausing slightly as he finishes. He leans slightly closer, eerily close to the nape of Till’s neck.
Till lets Ivan do his thing, because, quite frankly, he likes to think he’s beyond reacting to whatever Ivan’s freakish tendencies of the day happen to be. As per usual, Ivan lets his breath fan over the spot hesitantly, before he pulls away.
“See you back home?” Ivan whispers, suddenly.
Till scoffs, gently, “Why are you asking, idiot. Where else would I go?”
── .✦
Saturday mornings (pre-shift), in Ivan and Till’s humble abode, were typically spent with the pair quietly drinking drip espressos over breakfast. Ivan would spend the early morning switching on whatever classical instrumental playlist he happened to scroll through while roasting and grinding a rich, dark and chocolatey blend of coffee beans, whilst Till walks out of his room about an hour later, finding himself slowly cutting through a fresh slice of sourdough to toast, along with preparing paprika-spiced scrambled eggs.
It was all routine, really. Till would blearily stare up at Ivan, who would be scrutinising his blend, and let out a sparing smile. Ivan notices, because he has insane tunnel vision when it comes to Till smiling at him, apparently, and immediately looks at him, an unreadable expression on his face, before his gaze softens.
“Morning, Till,” Ivan always hesitates. Till never understands why, but he doesn’t really question it anymore. Till only hums in response, continuing to tiredly stir through the eggs. He notices Ivan continuing to stare at him, it’s oddly comforting.
Truth be told, Till thinks this exchange might be the best part of his week, and he had a feeling Ivan felt the same way.
“I have a date after work, by the way, so don’t wait up.”
Never-fucking-mind.
“You have a what?” Till manages, his voice hoarse.
Ivan’s eyebrows furrowed. “A date.” He repeats.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Okay— wait, okay?! Just like that?!” Till splutters, briefly wondering if he was still dreaming.
“I wasn’t really all that interested,” Ivan shrugs, beginning his process of pouring hot water over damp beans.
“Huh?” Till feels completely lost. “Then why would you accept the date in the first place? And why are you letting me talk you out of it?”
“Because I never wanted to go in the first place,” Ivan says.
“What about the first question?” Till asks, slowly, frustrated.
“Oh. You told me to, remember?”
“I told you to.” Till echoes, hollow. It was far too early for this shit.
“You said, and I incorrectly quote, ‘don’t pay those customers like a fiddle,’ and so, I didn’t. But now I am, I guess. Funny how life works, huh?”
What the fuck.
“Ivan,” Till says.
“Till,” Ivan replies. He’s next to Till now, his head drooping onto the crevice between Till’s shoulder and neck.
Till sighs, bringing a hand up to play with the other man’s already messy bed head. Silky raven strands weaving through his fingers, Till thinks he could get lost in the feeling. Ivan hums, nuzzling further into the crevice with a pleased smile. Hands wrap around his waist, pulling him in further. Gods, why did he have to be this cute in the morning?
“That— that wasn’t the reason I told you to stop,” Till says, his voice quiet, so as to keep the peace. Ivan only lets out a questioning hum in response, refusing to budge.
“Then what was?” He finally mumbles into skin.
“I… don’t know,” Till lies, finally. Ivan doesn’t say anything. They stay in their huddled positions before Ivan finally gets back up.
“Coffee’s ready,” Ivan says.
They sit in their unusually uncomfortable silence. Till thinks of Ivan’s date. Of Ivan pinching their cheek while cooing obnoxiously, of Ivan nuzzling into their hair, cheek, every nook and cranny he could fit himself into neatly. He wonders how Ivan would manage to piss his date off with his concerning affection. A biting, childish tongue, waxing poetic.
Of Ivan preparing a dark roast at five am to Fur Elise. For his date.
The coffee today left an annoyingly bitter aftertaste. He’d had something too sweet prior.
── .✦
“Till, you’re going to burn a hole right through our pleather chairs with the way you’re glaring at those poor kids,” Luka says, his voice deceptively monotone as per usual.
Till’s grip on his notepad tightens, “I’m going to snap.”
“Please take your bedroom issues back home with you, I don’t need it disrupting my workplace,” The blond sighs, massaging the nonexistent crease in his forehead.
“There are no bedroom issues,” Till murmurs, almost forlorn. Luka narrows his eyes at the other man, before looking ahead to where Till’s gaze was pointed towards. A couple of high schoolers were seated at a booth, with Ivan attending to them.
“Ivan’s not the type to flirt with high schoolers, y’know,” He says, in a meagre attempt to cheer Till up. Till knew Luka didn’t really care about his mood, more so how that mood of his would explode onto their customers.
“He might not be, but that won't stop them from liking him,” Till sighs, miserably.
Luka raises a brow, “To be fair, I think a group of horny teenagers would be into whichever of us happened to serve them. Hell, they’d be twirling their hair at you if they got the opportunity to,”
“Hell?” Til repeats, not liking the implication behind the use of the word.
Luka shrugs, “You’re like an eight, but that fine specimen over there ranks above the scale.” His thumb jabs towards Ivan.
Tills jaw slightly drops, “Why the fuck did you hire me if I’m just an eight then?!”
“An eight doesn’t warrant the preceding ‘just’. Do you think any old young adult schmo would rank an eight out of ten with my standards? You’re hot, take the compliment.” Luka tuts, digging his nose back into whatever weird accounting forms he was filling in. Till couldn’t tell whether they were college assignments or the café’s balance sheets.
“It’s hard to take the compliment when you just called my co-worker infinitely hotter—”
“What co-worker?” Ivan appears instantaneously next to Till, with that stupid work smile of his again.
“ God, Ivan, stop doing that.” Till weakly clutches at his chest despite his lacklustre tone. Ivan simply giggles. Giggles.
“It’s nothing. I just called you incredibly attractive in comparison to Till over here. Of course, I was being purely objective, not that he’d pick up on it,” Luka grunts, rolling his eyes.
“How the fuck is beauty considered objective?” Till hisses.
Luka levels Till with an unperturbed look, “Listen, attractiveness isn’t just comprised of your physical attributes. It’s also got everything to do with charisma, confidence, vibe—”
“Aura maxxing,” Ivan adds, nodding sagely.
“—yeah, sure, that.” Luka says, unbothered, as Till looks at Ivan with pure concern, “The point is, you may look conventionally attractive, and you have that whole emo nonchalant sort of bad boy thing going for you, but Ivan’s got oozing charisma, likability, and a penchant for smart salesmanship.”
“The youth would call it—”
Till slaps his palm over Ivan’s mouth. Ivan licks it. Till does not budge.
“You have a point,” Till sighs.
Ivan pricks Till’s finger with his snaggletooth, effectively getting Till to flinch as he lets the palm drop, “Actually, I disagree.”
Luka doesn’t say anything, he looks like he really wasn’t anticipating this conversation to go on for longer than it currently is. Till only gives Ivan a questioning look.
“I think Till has passion and life to him, it makes a person give off a far more interesting demeanour. You can’t fake those things, trust me. That’s what makes a person attractive. Also, have you seen his waistline?” Ivan gushes, his gaze unhelpfully zeroing in on Till’s waist almost immediately.
Till feels heat travel up his spine and down his neck all at once for multiple reasons he couldn’t fully comprehend at that given moment, as Luka groans, “Keep it in your pants.”
The ‘CLOSED’ neon sign at the café illuminates as Luka finally manages to successfully extract himself from the conversation in lieu of closing up shop, handing the keys to Ivan as he leaves with a, “Don’t make me regret giving this to you.” Before he walks out, leaving the two boys in a room only lit up by the streaking rays of the sunset.
Till finds himself turning to Ivan.
“So, those high schoolers,” He says.
“What about them?” Ivan asks, tilting his head slightly, an amused upturn to his already practised smile.
“How many of them made heart eyes at you by the time you were done taking their order?” Till grunts, staring down at the booth in assessment. Ivan chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Just the one~” Ivan singsongs. Till lets out a confused noise as Ivan boops the tip of his nose.
“Just kidding,” Ivan says, moments after Till’s rather profound silence, with a huff of laughter.
Except.
“No, you’re not.” Till murmurs, annoyed.
Ivan’s eyes widen imperceptibly, “What was that?”
“You’re doing it again. That fucking smile. Stop doing that, not with me,” Till says, grasping at Ivan’s wrist as his frustration began to take hold of him.
“What smile?” Ivan asks, his expression unreadable.
“That idiotic fake one you flash at just about anybody to make them think that there isn’t a single thought going on in that your head of yours or some shit. Quite honestly, I still don’t fully understand it, but I know I don’t like it, because it’s not you.” Till says, as his grip on Ivan gets tighter.
Ivan stares at him in silence for a brief moment before letting out an incredulous laugh. “It’s not me?”
Is he being fucking serious?
“Of course it’s not you imbecile—”
“Big word,” Ivan interrupts.
“Distracting me’s not going to work right now, Ivan. You don’t seriously believe that you are what you pretend to be in front of all these people, do you?” Till asks desperately.
“Mind telling me what exactly I’m supposed to be like then?” Ivan asks, his voice still bordering on faux hilarity.
Till rolls his eyes, “Fine. You’re a fucking freakazoid of a specimen, who revels in affection through acting like a seven year old boy.”
“...huh.”
“But you’re also endearing. In really frustrating ways,” Till continues, his laugh hollow, not noticing Ivan’s cheeks slightly flush, as his eyebrows disappear into his hairline, “You brew espressos in the morning, not for yourself, because you don’t even like bitter things, but you do it for me. Because I do. You piss me off with childish banter because you know it distracts me from exhaustion, and you never press me to be more than I am, even when it’s hard.”
Till looks up, before impulsively deciding to place his free palm over Ivan’s cheek, causing Ivan’s breath to hitch, “You like to talk about constellations, and what they represent. Obscure religious mythos you don’t even believe in. You have a million thoughts flying through your head at every possible moment before you say anything, and I can barely hope to catch more than two of them without feeling winded. You’re fascinating .”
Ivan’s eyes are fully blown over, the red in his irises flaring, “Is that really me, though? If I’m only like this with you, could you even call it, me ?” He asks, breathlessly.
Till’s eyebrows furrow, “Well, do you feel comfortable calling it you ?”
Ivan stares down at the ground, and then back up, into teal, “If it’s with you, then I suppose… It’s me,” He says, eventually.
Till feels his heart stutter violently at Ivan’s words, and subconsciously closes their distance, causing Ivan to gasp quietly against his lips, before melting into the kiss.
Ivan’s lips are impossibly soft, and Till thinks he’s drunk on the feeling of repeatedly leaving chaste kisses over them before Ivan, seemingly frustrated, pulls Till closer by the waist to deepen the fifth one. They move in tandem, with Till finding himself backed into a wall. Ivan’s snaggletooth latches onto his bottom lip, causing Till to let out an undignified groan.
“Fuck,” He gasps, as Ivan only grins madly into the sensation, his tongue licking off the blood he’d caused to drip, the action causing Till to flush entirely as he lets out a weak noise in protest, pushing the other man away.
“Are you a fucking d-dog?” He stutters, struggling to get the words out.
“Woof,” Ivan says, as a beautifully manic smile takes form on his face. Till cringes with second-hand embarrassment for his— whatever Ivan was now.
“How am I attracted to you?” He bemoans, as Ivan pecks his cheek before nuzzling into it. Till’s gaze softens as he presses another kiss onto Ivan’s hair. Ivan’s head snaps up instantly, looking up at him with sparkling eyes and cherry red-tipped ears.
“Seriously? You just kissed the living daylights out of me and licked my lips like a rottweiler, and this is what gets you flustered?” Till laughs, bewildered.
Ivan’s blush travels down his neck, “I-I just didn’t expect it,” He whispers, “That you would want to be so affectionate. To me,”
“You really are an idiot,” Till sighs, before lifting Ivan’s face up with his palms once again. He leaves a kiss on his right cheek, and then the left. He pecks his forehead, chin, the tip of his nose, and the wisps of his eyelashes, relishing in Ivan’s face turning several shades darker, his cute, spluttering noises in surprise.
He ends his kiss-assault with a gentle, lingering one on Ivan’s lips, before pulling away, “Better get used to this,” He says, with a smirk.
Ivan smiles, and it’s a real, beautifully lovesick one, stretching all across his brightly flushed face, “I don’t think that’s possible,”
── .✦ !
“Just the Toffee-Nut Macchiato then?” Ivan asks, jotting down his customer’s order diligently. It was a man today who looked to be around their age. Fairly attractive, he’d say.
Nothing compared to Till, Ivan thinks, wistfully. He and Till really hadn’t put an exact label on their relationship yet, mostly because they haven’t really talked about it.
How could they? Every time the conversation would begin to start, it would end in crumpled shirts and faded marks over their jawlines. Well, Till’s jawline. Because for some godforsaken reason, Till chose to only leave his marks over places that ‘wouldn’t show in public.’
Honestly, Ivan just thinks Till’s obsessed with his chest.
“I guess so,” The customer stares down at the menu, slightly contemplative, before looking back at Ivan, who snapped out of his only faintly pent-up trance, “Although, if it’s possible, I’d like to make one more request.”
“Oh, sure, shoot,” Ivan says, with a quickly formed grin.
Ivan somewhat (not really) hates the sick glee he was beginning to feel at the mention of a ‘request’. Usually, these tend to end with Till grabbing onto Ivan’s apron’s strands while violently flipping off the poor requestee with his positively colourful way with words. He shouldn’t be so happy about Till’s flamingly jealous streak.
The man flounders slightly, “A-ah, well actually, it doesn’t really have anything to do with an order, you see—”
He really shouldn’t be.
“I’d just like to know uh, if you could get me that guy’s number,”
…
..
.
?
Ivan turns towards the object of this now questionable man’s desires, before he blinks rapidly at the target.
“Uh,” He says, intelligibly.
“It’s just that he’s kind of my type, like, he’s just so electric, d’you get what I mean?” The customer barely manages not to stammer, staring up at Ivan, looking for some level of sympathy.
“Yeah, I get what you mean,” Ivan manages to say, his brain still buffering helplessly. Said waiter looks up from manning the counter, his expression questioning as he meets Ivan’s befuddled expression. He casts the customer a brief glance, his expression only graver as he watches the customer turn slightly pink.
He walks towards them, the customer pathetically whispering, “ Shit, he’s heading right for us,”
Ivan still feels as if he’s not exactly sure how to act right now. His brain ran with about a hundred scenarios, and now it had to think of about fifty more. Regardless, it would probably result in some form of fun.
“Is something the matter?” He asks, his eyebrows cutely scrunching. Ivan wants to kiss the creases between them.
“T-Till, is it?” The man asks, practically staring at Till’s name tag and nothing else. Till nods. Ivan smiles giddily, unable to help himself. It wasn’t as if this situation was something new to Till; he was extremely, superfluously, magnetisingly attractive, but this was the first time Ivan was right here to witness the motions go down live. Oh joy.
“Well, I just, I wanted to ask if— That is to say, if I could,” He takes a breath, as Till only looks at the man with mild wariness, “Could I get your number?”
Ivan’s eyes travel to meet Till’s, delighted to witness the cogs in Till’s brain slowly beginning to turn as he realises what he’d just been asked. Till blinks thrice in rapid succession, before he blinks one final time, slowly.
Till’s arm suddenly wraps around Ivan’s waist, causing Ivan to feel himself seize up slightly. Till leans his head onto Ivan’s shoulder, obstructing Ivan from getting a good look at his expression. Not that it mattered, Ivan felt far too overwhelmed to truly be thinking about anything other than grey hair delicately grazing against his chin.
“I have a boyfriend. Seems he was too shell-shocked to tell you himself, so I’ll apologise for him,” Till says smoothly.
Boyfriend.
The man waves his hands around wildly instantly, “Oh! I had no idea, I’m so sorry, sir, I must’ve made you so uncomfortable!” He looks between Till and Ivan apologetically.
“It’s fine. My boyfriend here was probably being a little too over-the-top with these theatrics. Don’t mind him, my boyfriend tends to get a little territorial. I apologise as well, for my boyfriend over here if he made you feel the brunt of his rejection. I’ll make sure to lecture my boyfriend after work,” Ivan says, his manic grin getting wider with every b-word drop.
And yes, Sua-that-lives-in-his-head, he’s well aware of the fact that whatever he was saying made little to no sense.
“Ugh, give him an inch and he’ll take a mile. Just go, man, before he gets worse,” Till says, waving the customer off.
“Before your boyfriend gets worse—”
Nothing tasted sweeter than Till shutting him up with a kiss instead of a punch to his shoulder.