Archive of Our Own

“You’re shitting me!” Till beams, shaking Isaac’s shoulder.

Dewey shakes his head with a low laugh, dragging a slightly green Isaac from Till’s exhilarated state, “He’s not. I was with Isaac when he got the call. How’d Luka ever agree to this anyway?”

“Remember?” Isaac scoffs, “Hyuna loved our last gig so much, she practically hounded him for it.”

“A record deal, a whole EP,” Till says, his expression brimming with awe, “how could it possibly get better than this?”

Dewey fishes out his phone, shoving an official-looking email towards Till, “I’ll tell you how kid, champagne.”

“Champagne?” Till murmurs, “I don’t think I’ve ever had, wait— a label party?”

Isaac nods, “Normally, they wouldn’t invite fresh meat like us to one of these, but Hyuna put in a good word.”

“Seriously, it sounds like she’s put in more than a word,” Till sighs, “what do you even do at these things?”

“I just told you, you drink champagne,” Dewey says, before getting jabbed in the chest by Isaac, “Ow!”

“Don’t worry too much, it’s pretty casual,” Isaac says, placating.

“It has a dress code, I need to buy a suit,” Till deadpans.

“Small potatoes,” Dewey reasons, “You just need to show up, explain our music to a few rich guys with sticks up their asses, and dip.”

Till frowns, reading over the invite again, “Plus one?”

Isaac nods, “Shouldn’t be a problem for you, should it?”

Till raises an eyebrow in response.

“I mean,” Dewey adds, “you’ve written like a gazillion love songs, surely they’ve got a name attached to them?”

If the names of K-Drama leads count, sure.

“Uh—” Till starts, before being interrupted by Dewey, “It’d be kinda funny if you never pulled anyone though, like, what were your songs even for?”

Till tried his best not to hyperventilate at the damning realisation that while this was just a matter of teasing Till to Dewey, the execs over at the record label might find Till’s lack of in-real-life romantic experience just as odd. What if this discredited UNKNOWN as an act? He doesn’t think he could live with himself if that were the case. Live with being the downfall of a group that barely stepped into stardom.

But who is he dating? Isaac and Dewey, his pseudo-parental figures since high school, who didn’t they know in his life? Not to mention, most of those other people in his life were noticeably women. Gay women.

“My roommate,” Till blurts, “I’m dating my roommate.”

Isaac smirks, a rare expression, nudging Dewey's bicep with his elbow, “You owe me fifty, told you it was him.”

“W-what?” Till looks between them, at Dewey’s befallen expression, at Isaac grabbing Dewey’s wrinkled paper bills, fifty thousand won, “Were you betting on my relationship?”

“More like, on who you were dating,” Isaac clarifies, “See, we couldn’t tell who it would’ve been. Dewey was sure it was that bartender who flirted with you after that gig at Hyuna’s bar last month, but I was sure it was that elusive roommate of yours, the one you refuse to introduce us to.”

“I’ve never refused-”

“You did! We asked you to invite him over to the same gig that the bartender was in, remember? You said, and I quote, ‘he wouldn’t be into these sorts of things,’” Dewey states, air-quoting Till’s past words.

Well, that much was true. Till really couldn’t imagine his roommate enjoying being seated in a dingy bar, with a bunch of alternatively dressed folk, ear-piercing music ricocheting through its flimsy walls, as Hyuna ignores the fourth noise complaint warrant she received that week.

No, Ivan was surely into the finer things in life. He certainly fit the bill; prim, proper, not a hair out of place. A smile so gentlemanly it could send a line of men and women alike swooning. His diet was akin to a rabbit’s, his outfit choices consisting of casual button-ups and pastel hoodies.

The only thing he and Till had in common was their dorm room.

“What does that have to do with us dating?” Till asks, his eyes narrowing at the pair.

Isaac looks at Till, knowingly, without really knowing much at all, “You talked about how he was sensitive to the noise. You looked so concerned,”

“That’s because he is sensitive to noise,” Till reasons, his memory harking back to a time when he accidentally strung his guitar connected to the amp in the living room, Ivan flinching almost instantly as his beige ceramic mug jostled in his grip.

“It’s cute how you’re denying it,” Dewey snorts, “Well, whatever, we’ll quit teasing you. Anyway, there’ll be plenty more where that came from when we get to meet the lucky guy,”

Oh, right. Fuck.

He had to tell Ivan of their apparent relationship status now. His roommate, the one he’d spoken to a total of ten times since they started living together two semesters ago.

Great.

Till slumps over to the kitchenette. It was the next morning, and that meant he had to work up the courage to muster asking his roommate the dreaded question. Frankly, if he were Ivan, he would’ve said no and filed for a new roommate the second he left for class. How Ivan would react— Till wasn’t too sure.

Speak of the devil, Ivan makes his way over to the kettle, his posture perfectly upright, already dressed for the day ahead, in a plaid sweater vest over a button-up. Till stares at him as the other man takes his overnight oats out of their refrigerator, all while he’s in sweats, dumping a wad of instant coffee powder over boiling water.

“Good morning, Ivan,” Till says, wincing inwardly the second Ivan’s hands freeze mid-unlocking his Tupperware container. They didn’t greet each other in the mornings. Ivan used to, out of courtesy, until he realised Till’s version of courtesy involved ignoring his existence until he’s had two shots of espresso over a white Monster down his system.

“Good Morning, Till,” Ivan says, flashing a princely smile at Till, insanely practised for 8 am, “Did you need something?”

Great, fucking great. His greeting made this seem transactional. That’s because it kind of is, his inner voice reminds him, sounding suspiciously like a buff individual sporting frosted blond tips.

“I, uh. The skies are getting awfully grey, aren’t they?” Till manages, as Ivan only tilts his head, slightly confused. He had no right looking that attractive, his hair drooping slightly at just the right angle, framing his sharp features perfectly, long eyelashes aiding in his ethereal image.

“Well, it’s November.”

“Right.”

“Right,” Ivan echoes, “Did you need me to pick anything up for you? You don’t usually ask, but I don’t mind.”

“No, thanks though,” Till pauses, hesitantly making eye contact with the taller man, “Say, uh, are you free on like, Christmas Eve?”

Ivan hums, “I believe I am.”

Oh, Okay.

“T-thats good. So you don’t have any plans?”

“Synonymous with being free, yeah.” Ivan’s smile turns slightly teasing. “Why?”

“Well,” Till scrunches his eyes together, “Doyouwannabemyfakedatetoarecordlabelparty?”

Ivan blinks, slow, “What?”

“Do you want to be my date, fake date, that is, to a record label party?” Till enunciating each word tortuously.

Ivan raises a brow, “A record label party?”

Oh yes, because the record label was the strange part of that request.

“Uh, a group of guys and I perform a few times, around the block or whatever. It’s not a big deal, but like,” Till waves his hands, “A friend of ours hooked us up with some execs in the industry, so there’s like, this formal-informal party on Christmas Eve,”

Ivan nods, “I see, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Till scratches his nape, “We need to bring plus ones.”

“Need to? That’s an odd requirement,” Ivan states, sipping on his coffee. Till notices the slight crease at his brow as he does so.

Till shrugs, “I write love songs, mostly. It’d be weird if I didn’t have a muse,”

“Couldn’t you just say it was based on an ex?” Ivan asks.

Till shakes his head, “No, my band mates have known me since I was like, fourteen. They’d know about any ex-partners in my life, and I’ve never had any.”

“Wow? None whatsoever? I have to concur, it is weird that all of your songs seem to be about something you have so little experience with.”

Till frowns, who the hell was this guy to harp on his creative process?

“Newsflash, buddy, you don’t need to commit murder to write about murder. You don’t need to have sex to write about it. How do you think asexuals end up writing the best porn? You don’t need to necessarily experience things firsthand to feel something for them conceptually,”

Ivan regards his statement, before humming, “Yes, I suppose that argument has some merit to it.”

“Why do you talk like a widowed fifty-year-old?”

“Regardless,” Ivan ignores Till smoothly, “What would I have to do as your ‘fake’ boyfriend?”

“Uh, be charming, I guess, but that shouldn’t be too hard for you,” Till thinks he hears the cup rattle, “Pretend like you like me? My band-mates are practically family to me, so they’ll probably be all up in your face about us,” Till winces, “Sorry for that, in advance.”

“That’s,” Ivan contemplates for a moment, “Fine. I can deal with that.”

“Wait, seriously?” Till’s eyes widen, “Dude, you don’t need to do this. We barely know each other, you don’t owe—”

“No, I don’t.” Ivan interrupts, “But you’d owe me for this, wouldn’t you?”

Oh.

“I guess, yeah,” Till mutters, “Do you have anything in mind?”

“Let’s just say you aren’t the only one who’d benefit from having a fake boyfriend out at his convenience,” Ivan smiles cryptically, “I get asked out often. At times, there’s hoards of people around me whether I like it or not. I’d like to be off the market, if you catch my drift.”

“I do,” Till didn’t run into Ivan often on campus, the humanities and engineering wings were practically on opposing ends of the map, “So, what, you just want to tell people you have a boyfriend?”

“I might require visual proof,” Ivan says, “You’d need to make it to wherever I am if need be, is that alright?”

“I mean, yeah, sure, but how long are we doing this?” Till asks, folding his arms.

Ivan glances back at his cup, “I’m fine doing this as long as I need to. You?”

Was he really? Ivan was a catch. Disciplined, smart, charming, and so annoyingly attractive. Fake dating for so long seemed…

“Are you sure about this? Till asks, his eyebrow twitching, “This just doesn’t— I dunno, feel like you,”

“And what do you know about me?” Ivan counters, his red pupils appearing to glow under the sun’s rays.

Till sighs. Ivan was right; he didn’t really know all that much about Ivan. Other than the fact that Ivan always dressed like a goddamn model, that he drinks coffee with a peculiar expression on his face, and that he seems tired in a discreet manner, Till could never quite figure out.

Till places his palm over Ivan’s arm, a gesture of gratitude, “Touché. Thanks, man. You really didn’t have to do this.”

Ivan hums in an I know sort of way, “Christmas Eve is in a month. What say you and I get a little practice in before the big day?”

“Practice?”

“If I’m supposedly your muse, then that would mean we would’ve been dating for a while, right?”

“Hm, yeah. Guess so,” Till agrees, “Alright then, what do you wanna do? We could uh, go to the movies.”

Ivan considers his proposal, nodding silently to himself, “Sure. Do you like horror?”

Does Till like shitting his pants publicly in front of the most objectively ineffable person he’s ever met?

“Y-yeah, love the horrors. Love being— uh, horrorful,”

“D’you mean scared?” Ivan clarifies, his mega watt smile widening by a fraction.

Fuck. “The kids say that now, horrorful. It’s like a thing, that they do, to be cool, that they learn from the toks.”

“TikTok?” Ivan’s smile wavers, dangerously bordering on a chuckle.

Till doesn’t say anything, opting to take a shot of his terribly mixed dirt water instead, “Pick a movie. Any damn movie. I don’t care, I’ll see you this evening,” He pauses, his brows furrowing, “If you’re free, of course.”

“I am. I’ll see you later then, Till. Looking forward to getting to know you outside of your terrible sleeping habits.”

You’re one to talk, ass-hat. I’ve never seen you sleep a day in my life.

Whatever, it wasn’t worth the hassle. Ivan was doing him a favour; he had to remember.

Till spent the rest of the day mulling over their evening, anxiety unrelenting. He didn’t understand what was wrong with him. After all, it was just a movie. A dark theatre where he had the liberty to sit back, and try his best not to screech for the next god knows how long— shit, what if Ivan picked a movie longer than two hours? What if there was an honest-to-God intermission?

A notification from his phone sets off, distracting Till from his turbulent train of thoughts.

Ivan Roommate #1

www.genericmoviesite.com/tickets/u3g43212….

Is this fine?

Till clicks on the link, absolutely unprepared for the god-awful smile that burned its way to his peripheral vision. His phone falls. He hears his screen protector crack against marble. He picks it up, slowly, trembling.

You

that’s

Ivan Roommate #1

IT (2017)

You

yeah, yeah i can see that.

Ivan’s Roommate #1

I’ve already bought the tickets, it’s the 7:30 pm showing :)

Of course, he uses emoticons instead of emojis. Well, Till didn’t even use the latter.

You reacted to Ivan’s Roommate #1’s message with ::thumbs_up::

It was just a movie. It, well, IT, wasn’t real. Besides, Ivan would be just as scared as he was, surely. Suffering together, that seemed appropriately romantic.

Except for the fact that Ivan was a freak of nature.

The opening scene begins. It was a classic, one even a vehement horror movie avoider like Till was vaguely aware of. Unfortunately, context and dialogue made it far worse. Ivan’s eerily intense gaze on the screen didn’t help. Not even a wince as Pennywise’s jaw unhinges, as the gore unfolds.

Honestly, Till was beginning to think that Ivan was scarier than the goddamn clown.

“Have you watched this before?” Till asks, keeping his voice hushed as per common theatre etiquette.

Ivan casts a glance at Till, the red in his eyes reflecting the jump scare Till managed to narrowly avoid witnessing through this interaction, “No.”

“Then how are you so,” Till huffs, “Unaffected? You’re creeping me out.”

Ivan shrugs, “It’s kinda predictable, isn’t it? Nothing worth being rattled over.”

Till frowns, “Even if it is, it still looks pretty terrifying—”

“Like, see, this girl in the house?”

Till lets out an affirming grunt. Ivan pops a caramel coated un-popped kernel into his mouth. Sick and twisted.

“She thinks she’s all safe right now, knocking out her father,” Ivan murmurs, as the girl in front of them sighs with relief in her residence, “But it’s probably a red herring.”

Sure enough, the girl stands heaving over the pool of blood surrounding her dead, sexually-abusive father in the bathroom. It was an intense scene, the music slowly coming to a stop as she heaves. Surely they’ll cut to the next—

And the clown got her.

Till jumps. Though it wasn’t the gory massacre that got him, it was Ivan’s bellowing laughter. The couple in front of them looks back in horror, their aghast expressions matching Till’s, except Till’s was mixed with mortification.

“Why the fuck are you laughing?!” Till hisses, slapping Ivan’s unfairly toned bicep as Ivan wipes a tear from his eye, manically shaky laughter continuing to escape him, before dissolving into a fit of softer giggles. Till absolutely despises how cute Ivan’s airy laughter was.

He did not think this man laughing at gruesome homicide was fucking adorable. Absolutely not.

“Sorry,” Ivan says, eventually. As if suddenly aware of the fact that they were in a public space, he stiffens slightly, an apologetic smile cast at the unfortunate pairing seated in front of them, paired with an apologetic wave, “That was unseemly,” He murmurs, his smile ever-charming as he looks back at Till, “Guess I didn’t expect them to prove me right literally a second later,”

Till shakes his head, “Don’t apologise, it just caught me off guard.” Ivan, seemingly unsure over how to react, simply blinks, prompting Till to elaborate, “It was cute, I guess.” He admits, scratching his nape as he looks ahead at the movie, preferring the horrors to facing Ivan’s expression.

He feels Ivan’s intensity by his side for the rest of the movie’s duration.

“We should do that more often,” Till decides. Ivan chuckles, almost confused as they walk out of the bustling theatre, shuffling through teenagers in scandalous costumes,

“From the looks of it, you didn’t seem to look like you were particularly… enthralled, while watching it,” Ivan says, “It’s fine, couples watch shitty romcoms too, don’t they? We could try those,”

“Do you laugh when they get into wacky miscommunication-based shenanigans?” Till asks. Ivan hums in a negative sort of way.

Till shrugs, “Then we’ll keep watching horror.” He pauses, realising what he’d just inadvertently admitted, heat flaring up his neck. He steals a glance at Ivan, whose brows furrow in response.

“You were being serious,” Ivan mumbles, mostly to himself. Till figures he wasn’t supposed to ask him to elaborate, and he’s frankly far too embarrassed to. Ivan clears his throat, “Let’s watch them in the dorm, our living room TV’s practically untouched, after all.”

“We can,” Till nods. He decides not to mention the fact that he would practically live on the couch if he weren’t too socially awkward to plug his console into their shared space.

They walk in relative silence after that interaction, sliding into Ivan’s over-expensive sedan as he proceeds to play the most heartbreaking ballads known to man. God, who listens to this shit on a Friday night?

“Are you hungry?” Ivan asks, as they cross an intersection.

‘Till shrugs, “I could eat, sure.”

“What would you like?” Ivan asks, his eyes glued to the road ahead, “I picked the movie, it’s only fair that you pick dinner, right?”

“You make everything sound like a business exchange,” Till rolls his eyes, “Now you’ve got me curious, what would you like?”

Ivan falls silent for a brief moment, “I don’t really have a preference,” He says, “You’re Korean, right—”

“We’re literally in South Korea right now.”

“That doesn’t make you Korean by default,” Ivan smirks, “So, are you?”

“Are you?” Till tries not to wince. Sue him, he was trying to rattle this guy.

Ivan’s grip on the wheel slightly tightens, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Till echoes, triumphant in finally having an upper leg in this cryptic conversation of theirs, no matter how meagre.

“Great, there’s a place with good jjajangmyeon nearby, according to Google reviews,”

“According to Google reviews?” Till frowns, “Don’t you know any place?”

“I don’t eat out a lot,” Ivan admits, mildly sheepish, “Doesn’t bode well with my constitution,”

His constitution. Pretentious bastard with his pretentious wording.

Till shakes his head, disappointed but not surprised, “I know a good jjajangmyeon place myself. Hand over your phone, I’ll put it on Maps.”

Ivan wordlessly passes his phone to Till. Brand new, sleek, screen-protected yet scratch-less. Fuck him, seriously.

He taps at the screen, recalling the area he used to frequent back in the day, run by that sweet old couple, something like—

The chosen destination fits the current route.

Till blinks, “It’s the same place,”

Ivan tilts his head, “Maybe I’ve been listening to your recommendations this whole time.”

“Shut up and drive,” Till crosses his arms with a huff.

“Shut up and drive~” Ivan sings in response. Cute. No— Annoying.

Eh, a bit of both.

They arrive after twenty minutes, Ivan parallel parking seamlessly as Till tries not to recall that being the reason he failed his last two driver’s ed tests. He was just… a public transport kinda guy.

“Cosy,” Ivan remarks, staring at the rustic interior of the restaurant, letting Till in through the door he held open.

Till sighs, “Listen, I know it’s a little too low-brow for your tastes—

“How presumptuous,” Ivan raises an eyebrow, “Cosy is a generally positive descriptor, by the way.” 

“Not from a rich bitch’s mouth it isn’t,” Till mutters.

He spots a middle-aged man at the corner, the Boss Hyung, who began working behind the counter after his father passed away. The father Till knew to give him stray pieces of butterscotch candy he had lying around his apron’s pocket whenever he came over as a child.

He orders for the two of them before joining Ivan at a closed booth. He slips into the seat opposite him.

Ivan ponders through the menu before tapping at the second-to-last page, “They’ve got dessert.” 

“Do they?” 

“I thought you loved this place. You’re telling me you’ve never had dessert here?” Ivan asks.

“I don’t really care for dessert,” Till shrugs. 

“Oh.” Ivan blinks, his brows furrowing, “Seriously? You were never curious?” 

“Ugh, well, I am now. What do they have then?” Till waves his arm in a nonchalant manner.

Ivan glances back down at the menu card, “Butterscotch toffee pudding with vanilla ice cream.”

Till winces, “God, that sounds disgustingly sweet.” 

Ivan stares at his menu in contemplation, “Its sugar content would be excessive,” He says, simply. Till rolls his eyes. 

“Why are you thinking about its sugar content like you’re on some kind of diet? What are you, a model?” 

“Part-time, actually,” Ivan says, as Till balks, “What?” 

“A hand model,” Ivan extends his wrist, “I’ve been told they look exceptionally moisturised, slender, yet masculine.” His eyes zero in on Till’s very calloused, far-too-long fingers. His blunt, definitely not manicured nails.

“Stop staring at mine,” Till mumbles, his ears burning with insecurity. He moves to bury them under the comfort of the table’s edges, before Ivan steals them, dragging Till’s fingers across the expanse of their empty table. He lifts them, analysing them as if he were attempting to commit them to memory. 

“They’re so rough,” Ivan says, “The skin’s flaking in the middle too–”

“They’re either sweaty or dry as hell Ivan. I don’t decide, god does,” Till rebuts, as Ivan gives him a glorious deadpanned expression.

“You would benefit from hand cream.” 

“You would benefit from shutting the fuck up and minding your own business,” Till snaps, begrudgingly adding hand cream to his next drugstore visit shopping list mentally.

Ivan brings Till’s calloused fingers to his lips, resting them there as Till’s eyes bulge. What the fuck was he doing?! 

“What do you think you’re doing, ass-hat?” Till hisses. Somehow, he forgets to pull his hands out of Ivan’s grip, unconsciously letting Ivan continue his antics. 

“Aren’t we dating? This is normal behaviour,” Ivan says, before meeting Till’s flustered gaze, “I get this one brand for free, the one I model for. I could give you some at a discount.” 

“At a discount?!” Till’s eyes narrow, “I'd better get it for free!” He shifts his free hand into an air quote gesture, “We’re dating, aren’t we?” 

Ivan giggles, his lips fluttering through hard ripples over the ridges of Till’s index finger, “That’s why I’m giving you the discount, love.” 

“That’s–” Till pouts, “Fine. Whatever. I don’t need your bougie-ass hand cream, I’ll just buy the generic kind.” He gets up, signalling Boss Hyung, “Hyung, one of your sweetest Butterscotch puddings!” He sits down, before adding, “Please,” 

Boss Hyung’s brows furrow, “You don’t like–” 

“It’s for my boyfriend,” Till says, flippantly, as Ivan’s eyes widen, “He has a sweet tooth.”

“Uh, okay.” Boss Hyung shrugs, disappearing into the kitchen.

“I never said I had a sweet tooth,” Ivan says, staring at the kitchen door as if it were about to burst open.

“Only someone with a sweet tooth would mention dessert in the first place,” Till says, as Ivan shakes his head, “I just wanted to know if—”

“Dude,” Till sighs, “I really don’t care if you’re a sugar freak. It makes you more normal, if anything,”

“Oh,” Ivan seems to take a minute to process that statement, “Well, I wouldn’t go as far as to call myself a sugar ‘freak’, but,” He blinks rapidly, “I suppose I do tend to savour sweeter things, yes,”

“Good for you,” Till says, monotone.

“Good for me,” Ivan agrees, finally relinquishing his grip on Till’s wrist as their jjajangmyeon (and toffee pudding) was served. Till digs into bowls of rich, caramelised umami goodness— forgoing all sense of basic mannerisms instead of slurping the noodles down his throat with reckless abandon.

He barely pays attention to the way Ivan stares at him, already growing used to the other man’s increasingly intense looks. Midway through a sip of beer, he remembers the dessert, “How’s the pudding?”

“I’m about to eat it,” Ivan says, gesturing to the porcelain bowl in front of him. “Would you like my live reaction?”

Till hums in agreement, opting to slurp through the last of his noodles instead of giving him a verbal response. Ivan digs into the pudding with the overly extravagant ceramic tea spoon he’d been given, and his eyes, honest to god, sparkle.

The spoon still lies in his mouth, his lip jutting out slightly as he pulls at the stem downwards, and Till hates how fucking cute he looks. Forget hand modelling, this guy might as well extort the rest of his damn body too while he was at it.

“I’m guessing it tastes good?” Till suggests, a knowing smirk growing over his features. Ivan seemingly forgot about Till’s presence, his eyes quickly darting to meet Till’s before settling back on sticky butterscotch-caramel syrup.

“It’s decadent,” Ivan says, slowly, “Rustic visual presentation aside—”

“Rustic?”

“—Ahem. The pudding’s texture is phenomenal, not too jelly-like, yet not too dense or custard-like, all the same. The butterscotch-caramel syrup’s been slightly overdone, but I feel as if that must’ve been purposeful; its charred taste brings a much-needed bitter balance to an otherwise unbalanced array. The unsweetened whipping cream on top provides a layer of textural complexity that deserves appreciation as well.”

Ivan pauses for a second, his eyes widening as if he were recalling something, “In fact, that’s often why cheesecake outlets tend to serve their cheesecakes with a serving of unsweetened whipped cream, to cut out the otherwise overwhelming richness. Obviously, it adds for decent aesthetic value as well.”

Till blinks, “Wow, you really know your stuff.”

Ivan shrugs, “Video essays, random news articles, you know how it is.”

Till really didn’t.

“You should tell him,” He suggests.

“What? That whipping cream’s often served with sweet desserts? I think he knows that,” Ivan chuckles.

“That you liked it,” Till sighs, “that you liked it enough to go on a fixated rant about it, apparently,”

“I wonder if he went to pastry school,” Ivan mutters. Till smiles despite himself, at how seriously Ivan takes his dessert. Unexpected, like some male lead showing off a soft side to him or something, “Go ask him then,” He shrugs in response.

“I can’t do that! What if he didn’t?” Ivan’s eyes narrow. Till rolls his eyes, “Hyung, did you go to pastry school?”

Boss Hyung looks up from the register, “No, I went to business school.”

“He went to business school,” Till echoes, as Ivan nods, solemn. Boss Hyung looks between them, mildly confused, “Why?”

“My boyfriend loved your pudding,” Till says, as Ivan clears his throat awkwardly, “I did.”

Boss Hyung beams, “O-oh! Thank you! I always asked Appa to do something with all those damn butterscotch candies he had and put them over the pudding, but he told me to think about doing it when I took over.” He chuckles, shaking his head, “Glad to see I made a good decision.”

Ivan continues singing his praises as Till begins to check through his wallet to pay. Ivan suddenly stops mid ramble, his eyes zeroing in on Till’s wallet, “Why are you paying? I’ll pay,”

“You paid for the movie tickets and the snacks. Did you just forget?”

“You only wanted salted popcorn,” Ivan argues, “That’s nothing,”

“In this economy?” Till cross-questions, incredulous.

Ivan rolls his eyes, “If you’re so concerned over the economy, then you’ll allow me to alleviate your burden.”

“Fuck no. This is my store,” Till barks, as Boss Hyung looks at him, unimpressed.

“You know what I mean, Hyung,” He whines, mildly, “Don’t accept his dirty corporate mafia money,”

“My dirty corporate mafia money,” Ivan repeats, amused. Till takes that gap elapsed time to shove a crumpled 50,000 won bill in Boss Hyung’s direction.

“WE’RE GOING NOW!” He yells, grabbing Ivan’s wrist as the raven-haired man splutters in protest, “Your change?”

“He’ll add it to the next order,” Till groans, “Move your big ass and walk.”

Ivan Roommate

Hey

You

?

Ivan Roommate

Try to sound more excited

You

???

Ivan Roommate

Sighs

Can you come over?

You

?????

Ivan Roommate

To the engineering dept

If you’re free, that is

Actually, send me your schedule while you’re at it

You

timetablesem2.pdf

I'll be out of class in five

cool?

Ivan Roommate

Hm. Yeah.

I’m near Building D, at the foyer.

You reacted to Ivan’s Roommate’s message with::thumbs_up::

Till slips his headphones off as he nears Building D. Faculty of Mechanical Engineering, the board reads. Till had never really had a reason to show up to this side of campus— aside from swinging by the Data Science faculty to drop off things for Sua every once in a while. She was always at the arts department, loitering around Mizi anyway. (‘The vending machines here stock better drinks,’ She argues, as if she doesn’t just drink hot water all day like a lunatic).

Speaking of drinks, he stares at the now-dripping bottle of peach iced tea in his palms, unable to distinguish between droplets of condensation and his sweat. Surely Ivan would appreciate Iced tea, right? It seemed the most appealing— other than straight-up chocolate milk. But Till had this weird feeling that Ivan probably preferred something a little more colourful.

He spots Ivan, leaning over a wall, scrolling through his phone, looking relatively unbothered. What the hell?

“Yo,” Till says, trying to school his bewilderment. Ivan looks up, his eyes instantly zeroing in on the iced tea.

“Iced tea? You don’t look the type.” Ivan comments mildly.

Till frowns, “It’s for you. And screw you, lemon iced tea has its moments.”

Ivan’s eyebrows disappear under his bangs in surprise, “For me?”

Till presses it to Ivan’s cheek again, a growing habit, “Well? Where’s my thanks?”

“I never asked,” Ivan snipes, before kissing Till’s cheek, his lips sending heat stretching through his spot of impact, “But thanks.”

“Whatever,” Till mumbles, desperately trying to ignore his flustered state, “Why’d you call me here anyway? You seem fine, no flock of suitors at your feet from what it looks like.”

“Not yet there isn’t,” Ivan says, “Nobody in engineering has the energy to do anything other than go in and out of classes, barely functioning.”

“Guess the illustration major can finally relate to the STEM student mindset in a way,” Till chuckles, “Can’t remember the last time I remembered to put on eyeliner before classes. High school me would have shuddered in horror,”

Ivan smiles, somewhat faraway, “You do look good in eyeliner.”

“Do I not look good without it?” Till teases.

“You look softer,” Ivan comments, without elaborating, “It’s hardly a negative statement, so don’t think too hard about it.”

Well, now Till thinks he needs to think about it.

Till pauses, “Wait, when have you seen me in eyeliner?”

“The morning after your gigs, you usually forget to wipe it off,” Ivan sighs, “That’s not good for your skin, y’know,”

“Whatever,” Till repeats, mildly bristled, “So, where are these so-called suitors of yours?”

“Art department. Meeting up with a friend for lunch.”

Till deadpans, “You’re shitting me.”

“I am not.”

“You asshole,” Till hisses, “I was already there! Why the fuck did you have me get over here if we were just going to waltz back over there?!”

“What kind of boyfriend would you be if you didn’t walk me over to your department?” Ivan asks, faux-innocent.

“So what? You’re just gonna dump me once you meet this friend of yours, and I just… leave?”

“You’re welcome to join.” Ivan shrugs, “I haven’t had the headspace to stay on campus for lunch this year that much, but I felt bad rejecting her requests for so long.”

“…Is she the suitor?” Till asks, furrowing his brows.

Ivan snorts, “She’s gay.”

“Oh,” Till blinks, “God, the more you speak, the less necessary my presence feels.”

Ivan links their arms, “Think of it as more practice.”

For what.

They made their way back to the Arts department, with Ivan clinging to his side like a sophisticated purse dog. How could a guy cling and stay so poised at the same time? Only Ivan had these capabilities.

Throughout the way, Till noticed a few eyes on them as they walked past. College wasn’t high school; there weren’t specifically popular or unpopular kids. All that said…

Ivan was just too attractive not to take notice of. He supposed being a part-time model with a more than humble following on social media would do that to a person.

“Towards the benches,” Ivan instructs. Huh, this place kind of looks like where Till and his friends have lunch.

“Mizi!” Ivan waves excitedly at the table, and Till lets go of Ivan’s arm in an instant, as if burned.

“Mizi?!” Till yells, for not the same reasons.

Mizi waves back at Ivan, meeting Till’s eyes to extend her wave. Beside them, Sua raises an eyebrow between the pair, “Ivannie! You finally decided to make it!”

Ivannie? What the fuck? Blegh.

They slide into the seats opposing Mizi and Sua, their thighs touching. Till’s head whirls as he attempts to process the scene in front of him.

“I see I didn’t need to introduce you two to each other.”

“No, no,” Till says, massaging his temple, “I think you do.”

“Oh,” Mizi blinks, “Well, okay. Till, that’s Ivan, he’s a robotics—”

“Not that,” Till interrupts, “How do you know him? How have you never mentioned him?”

“Ah! Well, he’s Sua’s cousin, so I met up with him once when I went out with her to this one family summer house—”

“He’s Sua’s what?” Till’s gaze snaps to Sua, “You’ve literally never mentioned him once.”

Sua continues to look down at her salad bowl, seemingly uninterested, “We’re not that close.”

“But we are!” Mizi says, “Ivan and I are best friends.” She continues, as Ivan nods enthusiastically. Till blinks. What the hell just happened to the nonchalant guy leaning against the wall earlier?

“In fact,” Ivan starts, “I think Sua needs to shove over. She doesn’t seem to be appreciating her place enough.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sua clips, “Isn’t this the infamous partner you’ve been telling the family about?” She gestures to Till boredly.

Till blinks rapidly, “You’ve been telling your family about us?”

“You two are dating?!” Mizi gasps, “I’ve never seen Ivan take interest in anyone romantically before.” She claps her hands, “That’s so exciting! How’d you two meet?”

“We’re roommates,” Ivan says, bluntly.

“You are?” Sua frowns, "He’s that guy you said had the hottest sleeper build you’d ever laid your eyes on? The one you said looked cute when he—”

“The very one!” Till interrupts, heat searing up his spine, “So you can shut up now. Please,”

Ivan looks at Till, leaning his elbows over the bench’s table languidly, “So, you think I’m hot?”

“No shit, I think you’re hot, we’re dating,” Till snaps, “Now eat your goddamn food. I want to savour my chicken tikka wrap,”

“Don’t wanna,” Ivan says, leaning too close, his lips ghosting the shell of Till’s right ear, “Tell me, dearest, do you find it hot when I do this? When I conquer your space, take your—”

“Can you not PDA all over this desk?” Sua asks, dry, “Some of us are trying to eat.”

Till thanks the gods above for Sua’s god-awful mood. She probably just had to deal with a three-hour statistics lecture, if her careless forkfuls of lettuce had anything to say regarding the matter.

“You should eat too,” Till says, pointing to Ivan’s cross-body messenger bag, “There’s a microwave somewhere on the first floor if you need to heat that up.”

Ivan pauses, as if wondering what to say, before Sua pipes up again, “He didn’t bring anything.”

Mizi sighs, disappointed but seemingly unsurprised, “Seriously? You should’ve left that habit in high school,” She looks at Ivan, concern dotting emerald eyes, “Do you need any cash? There’s a café down the street, and I’m pretty sure there’s another on the third floor.”

Ivan opens his mouth to reply before Till beats him to it, “This is a habit of yours? You eat fine at home though.”

Ivan glances at Till, “I just don’t like packed food that’s meant to be hot or something,” He admits, “Nothing more to it.”

Sua clicks her tongue, opting to not respond verbally, likely having done so in the past at some point.

Till thinks for a moment, “How about kimbap then?”

“Hm?” Ivan blinks rapidly, “What about it?”

“Have you tried having it? It shouldn’t texturally change that much over the day,” Till says, “I used to buy tuna mayo ones at the convenience store back in high school, they were fine.” He points at the café, “You could buy stuff from there, as Mizi said, but their food’s kinda ass.”

Sua gives him a look.

“Full offence Sua, your taste in anything kinda sucks,” Till says, uncaring.

“You’re right, my company speaks for itself,” Sua replies, dryly.

“But not your taste in women, of course,” Mizi giggles, kissing her cheek. Sua nods, “Of course, what are you if not my worldly exception?”

“Gross,” Till says. Cute, he thinks, begrudgingly.

“Cute,” Ivan says. His strained smile screams, gross.

Till sighs, launching himself out of the bench before grabbing Ivan’s wrist, “Come on Casanova,” He says, as Ivan lets out a confused noise, “We need to get you some kimbap.”

“Now?” Ivan asks, despite letting himself be willed upwards, “What about your lunch?”

“What, you think I can’t multitask? I’ll eat on the way,” Till says, “Besides, I don’t want to sit here third wheeling all day,”

“Don’t you do that every day?”

“Shut up.” Till says, as Sua pipes, “He just sighs really loudly, hoping we’ll get the hint.”

Mizi sheepishly scratches the back of her head, “Sorry, Till. We believe in exercising our right to love.”

“Good for you. I’m going to go now, and exercise my right to make sure this guy doesn’t starve before he accidentally burns himself joining wires together,”

“It’s called soldering,” Ivan corrects, before smirking, “Aw, Till-ah, you really care about me, huh?”

“Die.”

“I always knew he’d be the romantic type,” Mizi nods, as if she were a proud mother.

“Wait,” Till pauses, scrunching his brows, “Where the fuck were your so-called suitors?”

Ivan shrugs, “Not so much suitors, more so Sua knowing you were mine.”

“But Sua’s gay,”

Ivan begins to speak slowly, as if he were explaining something to a toddler, “If Sua can confirm my status, then my family can confirm my status.”

"And that matters…” Till takes a bite of his wrap “Why?” His speech comes out muffled.

“My family is uh,” Ivan keeps his gaze trained on his sneakers, “They’re quite persistent with these things. They’ve been wondering why I didn’t have a significant other for a while now, and if I didn’t make a move, they probably would’ve forced some sort of amicable relationship upon me. It’s good for our standing or something,”

“That and, you may not be aware, but I do happen to have a few thousand followers on social media,”

“You have seventy thousand.” Till deadpans.

Ivan hums, “A lot of them are from the local area or even campus, since I tend to model for establishments concentrated here. They would’ve definitely noticed you right now, hence why nobody bothered stopping me today either,” He finally looks towards Till, “That’s good for you, isn’t it?”

Till takes another bite of his wrap, fully taking the time to chew and swallow before answering. “I guess it is, I would’ve liked to be all cringe and possessive or whatever,” Till says, “Might be fun.”

Ivan slows, staring at his plastic wrap kimbap in contemplation, “Do it now, then.”

“Hm?”

“4 o’clock, the girl at the register always asks me if I’m single every time I cash something in.”

“What, she doesn’t take one ‘no’ for an answer?” Till asks, incredulous.

Ivan shrugs, “I may have said yes once. To a date.”

“Huh?” Till blue-screens, “Aren’t you gay?”

“Maybe she would’ve fixed me.” Ivan reasons.

“That’s not how that works,” Till replies, his head beginning to throb at the turn of this conversation.

“Anyway, we went to a café. She was pretty boring, I said I didn’t want to pursue it— she keeps saying she can make the next date better if I give her a shot.”

“Uh, is she like, your type or something? Visually?” Till asks, trying to think of Ivan’s angle.

Ivan looks Till over, up and down, for about half a minute. “No.”

He then places his items on the conveyor belt, ringing up the cashier.

“Hello! That’ll be 4,99. Cash or card—” She stops, taking in the man in front of her before her expression shifts, “I could make it 4,29 if you’re willing to pay me back with your time,” She suggests, customer service smile unfaltering.

Woah. That wasn’t even a good discount.

“4,99’s fine, thanks,” Ivan says, polite, lined with mild urgency.

‘You sure? You didn’t like that place because the drinks were too sweet, right?—”

Hah.

“—I found this matcha place that refuses to add sweetener to their lattes. Super authentic too, kinda expensive, but that’s fine, who cares, I don’t care, do you care?” She rambles on in succession, Ivan’s smile only getting wider, turning to Till with an expectant expression.

Ugh. Fine.

“He has a boyfriend,” Till says, monotone. He knows it probably isn’t enough, sue him for trying.

Sure enough, the girl raises a brow, “A boyfriend? What boyfriend? You would’ve told me if you had a boyfriend,” She ignores Till, laser-focused on Ivan’s blindingly fake smile.

“It’s been a recent development,” Ivan confirms.

“What the hell?” The girl’s eyes narrow, “Who even is this poser anyway? Is it the money? Is he rich? Ivan, I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but I’m actually the heiress of a packing peanuts fortune.”

“Me.” Till replies, simply, “And based on the fact that I’m using the store’s in-app coupons, I am not, in fact, rich.”

The girl finally acknowledges his existence, rounding on Till with judgmental, roaming eyes, “What, so you’re into unemployed geeks?”

Unemployed geeks?!

“Excuse me—”

“I’m into bad boys,” Ivan interrupts, dead serious.

Pin drop silence.

“Is he supposed to be your idea of a bad boy?”

“Listen,” Till sighs, resisting the urge to facepalm, “He’s my boyfriend. Like it or not, capishe?”

“No, actually,” The girl huffs, “what does he have that I don’t?”

Ivan looks towards Till, “I dunno Till, what do you have that she doesn’t?”

“A dick.”

Silence. Yet again.

Till groans, “I don’t need to prove myself to you.” He grabs Ivan by the waist aggressively. That’s probably what he wanted all along anyway, probably had a fucking manhandling kink.

“Just know that we have hardcore sex. All the time. We’re having it right now, actually.”

“You’re having it right now?” The girl echoes, confused.

“It’s like, mind fucking. You wouldn’t get it.” Till waves her off, “Point is, Ivan fucks me, and I fuck him, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to weasel your way to get in the middle of it. Oh, and now we want some kimbap and Pocky sticks.” He gestures to the card reader, “So can we pay you the damn 70 cents extra?”

She finally relents, turning the card reader in their direction as Ivan taps his phone over it gratefully. Till, deciding to finally give in to his impulsive tendencies, because he thinks he’s allowed that much after this experience, really, moves closer to the girl, close enough to whisper and be heard.

“Oh, and by the way, the Pocky sticks are for him. Because he’s got a massive. Fucking. Sweet tooth. The drinks at that café probably weren’t sweet enough, actually. You’d know that if you actually cared. But you don’t. I do. Because I,” He leans in slightly closer, “I get to suck his dick.”

He latches onto Ivan’s arm, “Let’s go.”

“Oh, really? But you haven’t gotten to the part where you get to leave your mark and stake your claim on me,” Ivan says, batting his eyelashes. Till kicks him in the shin.

They make their way out of the store, arm in arm, and Ivan decides to finally open his big fat mouth.

“I thought that was hot. And embarrassing. For you. But mostly hot.”

“Next time, you should just starve.”

You

r u free tonite

Ivan

Maybe

You

fym maybe

Ivan

What do you need?

You

there’s this arcade…

You are typing…

Ivan

Ok

You

and like none of my friends r free and there’s this one motorbike simulator they just installed and i really wanted to

wait what

Ivan

I’m free

But be honest

Did you only ask me because I can drive us there?

Read

“So, this is the place,” Ivan says, staring at the flickering neon signboard in front of them, “You seem to support quite a few local establishments.”

“Is this your way of calling me cheap?”

“Actually, local establishments often offer competitive or exclusive pricing in comparison to some sort of corporate franchise,” Ivan rebuts, staring at the sprawled OPEN note stuck on the cracked glass door, “In this case, though,”

“So you’re calling it cheap.” Till deadpans, “Get in Princess, we’re getting our gaming on.”

“You did not just say that.” Ivan laughs, incredulous, “You sound like what people think gamers sound like.”

“Shut up,” Till’s ears flare involuntarily, “I’m just excited.”

“That’s cute,” Ivan says. Whatever that means.

Till pushes the door open, air conditioner blasting them both in the face, paired with bisexual ambient lighting as a greeting. He heads straight first towards the new setup, waving wildly at Ivan once he gets there. Honestly, what good are giraffe legs if you still walk so damn slow? “Stop taking so long!”

“I was merely getting us tokens. You’re supposed to do that in an arcade, no?” Ivan asks, walking with a particular skip in his step, pairing the action with an obnoxious smile.

The heat reinvites itself to reside over Till’s face, “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

Ivan chuckles, “So, how do we do this thing?”

“What? Never been to an arcade before?” Till huffs. Ivan merely hums in response. Man. He should’ve expected that, actually.

“Okay,” Till points to the seats, “Sit on the blue one. I’ll take the red.”

Ivan obeys, sliding a leg over the other side as Till follows suit, “Okay, so it’s going to tilt slightly once I actually start the game, just keep that in mind. Basically, we just choose a track we enjoy on the display, the number of laps, and, well, race each other to the finish line.”

“That’s cool,” Ivan says, for lack of anything better to say, “I might suck a little at first, fair warning.”

Till laughs, far too smug, “Oh, Ivan, you’d suck regardless.”

Ivan’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, “Is that supposed to be an innuendo?”

“What? No. Get your head out of the gutter, idiot.” Till flicks through different tracks with his joystick before settling on Tokyo, three laps. Standard enough, he figured. The deep announcer’s voice signals their countdown, before it starts, and Till accelerates immediately, turning to obtain optimal drift speed down his current trajectory.

He hears a disgruntled noise and spares a glance to the right, laughing boisterously as he takes in the scene of Ivan’s surprised little yelp as his bike tilts too far left. Ivan, upon hearing his laughter, looks up, a crazed smile overtaking his features. Before he knows it, he’s rounded the final lap, checkered tracks indicating his victory. The 1st place ranking is automatically his, as for Ivan…

“Told you I’d suck,” Ivan says, staring at his brilliant 8th (out of 8) place ranking.

Till shakes his head, “It’s chill, you looked pretty hilarious like that.”

“You looked pretty badass,” Ivan counters, “Had any motorcycle guy fantasies growing up?”

Till blushes, “I’ve never really grown out of them. I’ve always wanted a bike, I used to ride Isaac’s down the street when I was like, sixteen.”

“So you have some experience— albeit, illegal experience,” Ivan notes, a quirk to his lips.

“I guess I do,” Till nods, “I hope I get more of it, eventually. For now though, this bad boy should get some good practice in,” He taps on the light wheel encouragingly as it spins through variously bright LED colours.

“I’m sure you will, eventually,” Ivan says, earnest, catching Till off guard slightly. It was always a little shocking to hear genuine emotion or heartfelt belief from Ivan, in any regard.

“W-whatever,” Till stammers, pupils darting nervously across the room, “It’s your turn. Pick a game,”

Ivan looks around, before grinning deviously at the row of crane machines before them, “I’ve been told I have a sixth sense when it comes to their things,” He says, “See anything you’d like?”

Till mulls over the display case, “Uh. I don’t really care for plushies.”

“I see,” Ivan nods, “Then maybe we shouldn't—”

“No,” Till says, immediately, “You wanted something there, didn’t you?”

“No, I just have good luck with them.” Ivan shrugs.

“I don’t believe you,” Till crosses his arms, “If you’re good at them, that implies that you’ve wanted to get something from them before.”

“What are you? A lawyer?” Ivan asks incredulously, “I swear, there’s nothing.”

Till bangs on the case of one, wincing as it rattles off its weak adhesive suction at the bottom. “Get me the uh, bunny.”

Ivan stares at the case, “Till, they’re all bunnies.”

“Then it shouldn’t be too hard for you, should it?” Till huffs.

Ivan clicks his tongue, operating the joystick quickly, with a precision Till could barely take notice of, as if there were a particular thing he was gunning for. The teal bunny, Till realises, belatedly. Sure enough, the claw pulls on the teal bunny’s ears, dropping it into the collection slot as Ivan victoriously cheers for himself. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t.

“Look!” Ivan pulls the bunny out, “It’s Teal.”

“Its name is Teal? Like, the colour?” Till asks, raising an eyebrow.

Ivan nods vigorously, like his head was about to pop right out of his tendons, “He’s cute, right?”

Till could think of something cuter.

"He’s a little bunny with a big heart,” Ivan continues, rattling of its lore like he knew it from the back of his hand, “He’s always trying to make friends, but he comes off a little aggressive, so people are a little wary of him,” His eyes grow gentle, “He’s so loveable, he sings totally off-key but it’s still pretty endearing.”

Till blinks, "That sounds kinda annoying,”

“Not as annoying as that stupid hare who keeps trying to cosy up to him,” Ivan snorts, “Seriously, he needs to take a hint.”

“A hare?”

“Mm, I don’t really know much about him. He’s big, sort of ugly, and he keeps following Teal around. Pathetic.” Ivan sighs.

“I thought you knew all of their lore,” Till admits, feeling a little bad for this anonymous hare.

“I only care about Teal,” Ivan admits, sheepishly, “Mizi was obsessed with the series, and wanted to get me into it. She managed to get me to care about one character when she kept losing her blind box pulls to him. I would always take Teal from her hands; he was just too cute to be put in the back of Mizi’s display case like that.”

“Anyway,” Ivan takes a breath before holding out the plushie, “I believe this is for you.”

“Dude, you clearly love it more than I do,” Till says, “Just uh, claw me another one.”

Ivan smiles, tucking Till-bun into his messenger bag, “Alright then. Let me try with my eyes closed this time.”

“Go wild,” Till says, as Ivan drags the joystick to the corner of the box with far less precision, swiftly pressing the red button. The claw lowers, before grabbing hold of a black bunny’s ears. It falls to the prize chute, and Till fits his hand through the metal sheet, digging for the bunny, pulling it out.

It was… big. But more importantly, it had down-turned short floppy ears, a dopey smile paired with a snaggletooth, and a glittery pink bow wrapped around its neck. Holy shit, it was so—

“Ew,” Ivan says, monotone.

“Ew?” Till gives Ivan an incredulous look, “It’s fucking adorable!”

“I can assure you, he’s not.”

“You can’t assure me over my own perception of an inanimate object,” Till huffs, “I think he’s the cutest bunny in that damn box.”

“He’s a hare.” Ivan says, lacklustre tone prevailing, “Ibanny.”

Till’s eyes widen with realisation, “Oh, so that’s why you hate him.” He looks at Ivan, assessing his figure before coming to a sound conclusion, “Well, I think he’s pretty cute, so fuck you. I’m keeping him, thanks.”

“To each their own, I guess,” Ivan replies, dull. “It’s your turn to choose.”

They spend the next half hour switching through various arcade games, with Till’s winning streak coming to an end a single time. Ivan, however, never looks as beat up as he should over it. Honestly, if it were Till constantly losing to some chump, he’d probably call it quits and stomp back home. Ivan just seemed to be weirdly into it, if his increasingly ardent gaze was anything to go by.

Eventually, Ivan points to the side of the arcade covered by a velvet curtain, “What’s in there?”

“Uh,” Till slowly blinks in an attempt to remember, “I think that was where the roller rink was?”

Ivan freezes mid-striking his air hockey puck, “There’s— a roller rink here?”

Till nods, “There are usually some teenagers that hang around there, I think. More than there would be over here at least,” He waved his hands in gesture to the few high schoolers huddled in front of pinball machines and the like. He deftly strikes back with his handle, the puck sliding effortlessly into the goal slot. Ivan hardly notices the obnoxious victory song echoes through the venue.

“Can we go?” Ivan asks, “To the roller rink, that is.”

“Sure.” Till says, “It’s your turn anyway.”

Ivan grabs Till’s wrist immediately, dragging them towards the curtains as Till lets himself be willed by a clearly eager puppy of a specimen. Ivan somehow guesses Till’s shoe size to perfection, much to Till’s disdain. He didn’t know what was worse: Ivan somehow accurately guessed his shoe size, or Ivan looking offended when Till called it a ‘guess’ and not an ‘educated estimation based on varying contextual factors’.

Till slips the first skate on, mortifyingly losing his sense of balance the second he does, because well, he neglected the fact that he was currently standing on wheels. Ivan quickly grasps Till by the waist, preventing his fall. He was already in his skates, too. What a show off.

“Ivan,” Till starts, with an audible gulp, “I’ve never really done this before,”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Ivan snorts, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle the laces, just hold the edge of this railing here,” He places Till’s palms over the railing, giving Till the opportunity to desperately grab onto it as Ivan sinks lower, on his knees to tie Till’s laces together into neat double knots.

Till tries not to think of how fucking sexy Ivan looked in that position.

“And we’re done~” Ivan sing-songs. He extends an arm towards Till, “I’ll lead us.”

Till accepts, shakily, as Ivan glides them across smooth hardwood. Till falters, making a disgruntled noise in discomfort. Ivan laughs, airy, looping Till by the waist with his arm, “You’re cute like this,” He says.

Till grunts, “What, like a helpless buffoon?”

“Like a fumbling baby deer.”

“Fuck you,” Till’s cheeks flush, “Why are you so good at this anyway?”

Ivan hums, “I used to ice skate in a few regional competitions here and there. Sometimes, I’d use roller rinks as a fair substitute if there was no ice rink near me,” His brows scrunch, “It’s not nearly the same though,”

Till imagines Ivan in shimmery outfits, gliding over the ice like a goddamn prince, and he feels the heat travel down his spine, “O-oh. Do you still skate?”

Ivan tilts his head contemplatively, “Eh, if the opportunity arises. Not professionally, though,”

“Show me.” He finds himself blurting.

Ivan raises an eyebrow, “Curious, are we? The rink here doesn’t translate super well to the ice, so I’m afraid we’ll just have to do a few laps around the place,” Till throws him a certain look that seems to amuse the raven, “I promise, it’s pretty therapeutic.”

“I’d like to see you on the ice, though,” Till sighs, “Now that you’ve said you do it, it feels so fitting.”

“Does it?” Ivan glances at him, question brimming with desire.

Till nods, staring straight at his feet, “It’s graceful, tragic, expressive, romantic. Requires a lot of technical precision, and a pretty face,” He blushes at the admission, sneaking a look at Ivan to gauge his reaction. Ivan’s ears were a bright pink, seeming all too interested in his own skates himself.

“Oh,” Ivan says, like he usually does when he’s flustered, Till realises.

“Anyway,” Ivan shakes himself out of a mildly dazed stupor, “I’m going to leave you here and run a few quick laps, that cool?”

Till makes an affirming noise as Ivan settles him into the edge of the rink, before setting off. Ivan was graceful, alright, practically gliding through the rink with an air of something ethereal to his technique. It wasn’t anything special, but Till finds himself enraptured all the same.

And it seems he wasn’t alone, apparently. He notices one too many eyes on Ivan, and a part of him doesn’t even blame them. Ivan was pure eye candy, in every sense of the word. He was handsome, beyond an ordinary limit, what with his chiselled jaw and long eyelashes. And gods, that was just a fraction of just his facial features worth noting. Till wasn’t even going to think about what was happening with his torso, waist and thighs, no thank you.

Giggling high school girls, awe-struck teenage boys, and even a few parents clearly dragged along as chaperones seemed to stare. Man, dating a hot guy really was too tough. Till kicks himself off the railing, stumbling towards Ivan with reckless abandon.

“I-vannnn!” Till’s initial nonchalant statement turned desperate scream alerts Ivan instantly, but it was too late; he was already but an inch away from Ivan, launching both of them to the floor, with Ivan’s palm narrowly covering the back of Till’s head as he barrelled down with him.

Till blinks wildly as Ivan stares down at him, before he bursts into laughter.

“What were you doing?” Ivan giggles despite himself.

“Not important,” Till grumbles. He pulls Ivan down by the stupid turtleneck wool, pecking him. Ivan gasps in shock.

Ivan’s cheeks turn rosy. “What was that for?” He asks, a shaky smile steadily growing.

“I just—” Till finds himself turning beet red himself, “People were looking at you,”

“Is that so?” Ivan asks, his smile growing wider, “Were you jealous?”

“N-no,” Till stammers, “It’s just that like, if people see us here not going mushy couple shit they’ll think we aren’t dating, and then they’ll think you're single. Which is like, technically correct, but they’re not supposed to know that—”

Ivan interrupts his nonsensical rambling with a quick peck, effectively shutting Till up, “You’re adorable,” He says, so, so fond.

Ivan’s voice drops impossibly lower, quiet, almost a whisper, “Guess I didn’t notice. I tend not to,” He tucks one of Till’s wildly bangs behind his ear, gently, “It’s hard to, you see, when there’s something else capturing my attention so ardently,”

Till breathes shakily, “Yeah?”

Ivan doesn’t respond, a quick kiss to Till’s wrist, and he’s pulled back upright.

Till thinks he’s starting to get pretty bad at this fake boyfriend bullshit. It felt like anything but.

On the other hand, Ivan was far too good at this fake boyfriend bullshit.

Dressed in a crisp tuxedo, paired with an expensive-looking cuff link of all things, he stands before the various array of music executives before them in the dimly lit room, an arm draped around Till’s waist. Not disgustingly obscene, but appropriately showing off their status.

“Of course, I’ve obviously heard Till’s recent single, as have I heard every preceding one,” Ivan smiles, charming, effortless, “His lyrics have this effortless way of capturing the turbulence of one in love,”

“With you, I’m presuming?” The lady in front of them asks, with a mildly amused glance at Ivan’s hand placement.

“Well, I’d sure hope that was the case, yes,” Ivan chuckles, turning to meet Till’s gaze, too fond.

Fake, Till tries to remind himself.

“Duh,” Was all Till could manage. The lady blinks. Ivan sighs, putting his free hand up beside his mouth, as if he were whispering to her in secret.

“He’s a little shy when it comes to ‘sappy stuff’, don’t mind him,” He whispers, laughing as Till elbows him in response. Slightly more jagged, slightly less practised.

“It’s not ‘sappy’,” Till finally mumbles, as the lady leaves.

Ivan shrugs, “Maybe you should tell her that.”

Till ignores him, “You’re really good at this, y’know,”

“Hm?” Ivan tilts his head.

“Never mind,” Till flushes, “Just keep mingling or whatever, I need a drink.”

Till feels Ivan’s burning gaze as he slips past Ivan’s grip, making his way to the drink table. Dewey was already there, downing flutes of champagne like this was the last day he’d ever get to taste the stuff.

“Till!” Dewey greets, “Where’s the boyfriend?”

“Being a socialite,” Till says, grasping at Dewey’s outstretched flute in offering. He downs it in one go. Fuck sipping it on it like some bougie executive, he wasn’t made for this.

Dewey stares at Till, raising an eyebrow in concern, “Dude. Everything ok? Did he do something? Need me to rough him up a little?”

“God no,” Till huffs, “But thanks.”

“Then what’s up with you?”

Till doesn’t say anything, his grip on the flute’s stem tightening, “He’s really good at this,” He repeats, quietly.

“Who?”

“Ivan,” Till sighs, “Ever since we got here, he’s been nothing but perfect. He knows exactly what to say, how to be, how to act. When to smile or laugh, and how loud that laugh needs to be.” He stares ahead at Ivan, who was currently amicably chattering with some older man, “He knows how to market us as well, he’s been singing us with praise, but not to the point where he sounds like some kind of kiss ass.”

“That’s…. good, isn’t it?” Dewey asks, confused.

Till smiles, hollow, “Yeah.”

“Oh, he’s with Isaac,” Dewey says, suddenly, as Till whips his head around. Sure enough, Isaac and Ivan were talking, Ivan’s repression seemingly a lot more tense.

Huh.

“I wonder what that’s about,” Till muses, Dewey nodding beside him, matching his curiosity, “Well, he did say something about a shovel talk earlier,”

“He what?”

“Yeah, like, don’t hurt our Till-ah, he’s like a son to us, we’ll kill him if he—”

“Oh my god,” Till hides his face in his palms, “You people are so fucking embarrassing! I’m not fucking fifteen with a high school girlfriend I’ve known a week,'“

“She was terrible!” Dewey pouts, “She only dated you to get with that other emo kid you were friends with.”

“That ‘other emo kid’ is still my best friend,” Till groans, “Mizi was a closeted lesbian, Dewey, and she still apologises every time we meet up. Honestly, I think I only remember it happened because she keeps crying over it. Honestly, we’re fine, she’s great. Better than me, even.”

“Yeah, she makes a mean strawberry shortcake,” Dewey agrees, nodding slightly, “But if you’re really that embarrassed, why don’t you stop him?”

“Ugh, fine.” Till leaves the table, a new flute in hand, and another for Ivan, just in case.

Isaac and Ivan become clearer in Till’s view as he walks closer, and he finds himself tugging on Ivan’s wrist, “You don’t need to listen to his bullshit,” He blurts, the alcohol in his system making him loose-lipped.

“How much did you drink?” Isaac asks, with an annoyed sigh, massaging his temple.

Till glares at Isaac, “Calm down, Mom. I had like, five of these.”

“Five?!” Ivan’s eyes widen. Isaac shakes his head.

“That’s not a lot for Till. His tolerance is pretty insane.” Isaac says, before pausing, “Although five should get him slightly buzzed,”

“Thanks,” Till smirks.

Isaac flicks his head, “That’s not a good thing. You can thank a lot of underage drinking for that one,”

“Wouldn’t have been underage if we were in Europe,” Till grumbles.

Ivan looks between them, with an awkward smile, “You’ve really known each other a while, huh?”

Isaac nods, “Since he was fourteen. His high school didn’t have a music club of any kind, so he loitered around our college campus hoping to join one of ours. None of the other kids were interested in having some high schooler in their circle, but we didn’t really care,”

“Hyuna didn’t care,” Till interrupts, “But she left, bartends and does most of her singing stuff solo now.”

Ivan perks up at the name, “I know her, she’s dating Luka, isn’t she?”

“You know Luka?”

“Family friend,” Ivan waves Till off, “It’s a small world after all,”

Till shrugs, most people wound up knowing each other in one way or another, through another. He pressed a flute to Ivan’s cheek, “Want one?”

Ivan blinks before slowly pushing the flute away, “I don’t handle alcohol too well,” He says candidly.

“No way, you’re a lightweight?” Till chuckles, “Cute.”

Isaac grins with mirth as well, “Certainly unexpected.”

“Is it really?” Ivan frowns. Till realised he didn’t like seeing Ivan frown, or maybe that was just the blurry lights casting them in negative lighting, bubbling alcohol buzzing through his brain in a soft lull.

He kisses Ivan’s cheek before he can think too much about it, “Calm down, I called it cute, didn't I?”

Ivan grabs the flute, “Maybe I will have one,”

“Oh no,” Isaac takes the flute right from Ivan, “Not letting a lightweight puke at an event like this on my watch,”

Ivan pouts, and Till can’t help but giggle, “You’re so cute,”

Ivan’s ears turn a pretty shade of red, one Till grew to yearn to see more often, “Baby,” He says, relishing in the heat spreading to Ivan’s cheeks, “Did he say something stupid? Don’t listen, he won’t kill you,” Till slurs out, before adding, “Okay, he might kill you.”

Unfortunately for them, another godforsaken music industry hotshot walked up to them at that moment, Ivan immediately schooling them into more appropriate positions. Till slides his hand through Ivan’s waistline for a change, under the tuxedo’s suit jacket as he pulls him flush, Ivan blinks rapidly, attempting to straighten his composure.

Oh, silly Ivan, Till thinks, there’s nothing you can do to make this seem straight.

“You’re one of those boys ANAKT’s signed an EP deal with recently, correct?” The man asks, glancing between Ivan and Till as if to decide who he needed to address. Till raises his hand slightly, “That’s me.”

“I’ve heard one of the demo tracks Luka gave us as part of the proposal. I have to say, it sounded incredibly promising. That track, it seemed to come from an almost rebellious place in your psyche— am I correct?”

Finally, a fun question.

“Was it ‘All In’?” Till’s eyebrows furrow slightly, his slightly tipsy state clearing his nerves, “A friend helped me out with those lyrics since we had similar emotions surrounding its inherent meaning. It speaks to living your life free of the chains of societal expectation. I suppose I’ve always been like that, outspoken, believing freely in whatever I do and believing that there shouldn’t be any consequence for that.”

The man nods, “That’s a good way of putting it. Your vocal tone is refreshingly unique as well.”

Ivan nods excitedly, “His range is phenomenal.”

Till blinks, his gaze sliding towards Ivan with question, “You’ve watched my shows?”

Ivan laughs, a little too loudly, “Of course I have! What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

Oh, right.

“He’s had a bit too much to drink,” Ivan supplies to the man, who only smiles politely in response. “I wouldn’t suppose you’d be sober enough for another question, would you?”

Till shakes his head, “Your question was the first I felt like actually answering tonight.”

“I’m delighted to hear that. The next question’s about your other submitted demo, the one with er, no title?”

“Unknown? That is the title,” Till says, “It’s supposed to capture the chaotic energy of how an idealistic love can feel.” He thinks back to how he felt with his high school girlfriend, how he built it up to be a lot more than it was.

He thinks of a romantic drama he’d watched with Dewey and Hyuna that one night, wasted out of their minds. The protagonist was caught between her feelings for two leads. The manic pixie dream girl, or his childhood best friend. One was easy; it wasn’t complicated. She made things easier; she was brighter. His childhood best friend? That was a different story, harder to navigate, and it was far more intricate to unravel. Destroying the nature of their already complex relationship would unravel his grip on his own sense of reality.

It was incredibly fascinating, and Till still wondered why his attention was so enraptured by its seemingly simple plot. It has like, a 6.4 on IMDB, Hyuna groaned, Let’s just change it to Boss Baby, She continued, That baby’s so full of itself. Reminds me of someone. A big baby.

He wondered if he’d ever get to feel something so intense in his lifetime. In this lifetime.

“It’s,” Till pauses, “What was your question again? Sorry, I was lost in thought,” Ivan stares at Till, as if he were mentally attempting to ascertain his thoughts.

The man repeats himself, “Just what kind of love it was meant to represent. I wanted to believe it was heartfelt, your delivery was so raw, and passionate—”

“It was,” Ivan murmurs under his breath, almost understandable if Till weren’t standing so close to him.

“—But then, there’s the lyrics. They seemed too superficial; he barely knew the person. He just jumped into naive feelings and,” The man rests his fingers over his chin thoughtfully, “I want to understand how I’m supposed to interpret it.”

Till tilts his head in contemplation, “It’s art, isn’t it? You can interpret it however you’d like, but I personally see it as a mixture of both, in a sense. It’s idealised love, first and foremost. The kind of love that develops out of a sheer desire to feel, and not necessarily a desire tied to an individual in a deep sense, there just happens to be one.

It’s like having your first crush. It’s not so deep where you’re thinking about love, but there’s this exciting, curious nature about it all, right? You want to know them, but you don’t really think you need to know them. But it’s complicated, because you don’t really know,” Till sighs, frustrated, “Y’know?”

The man blinks. Clearly, he did not.

Ivan watches on, his eyes alight with rapt interest. Somehow, it spurs Till on to continue, unwilling to let Ivan’s attention slip. He wanted to be the highlight of this night for Ivan. This night was made for Ivan to thrive in. The night he felt he had no place in.

“Edelweiss, it’s a symbol for courage, resilience. It could mean an unwillingness to let this feeling go, to cling to it, stubborn and unrelenting, because it’s fascinating and different, and bright— but the line that follows after it, ‘you’ll never know’, it’s like it directly contradicts that courageousness, like you’re remaining steadfast in your ignorance.”

“It’s just a piece surrounded with opposition at every turn,” Ivan says, finally, “It’s like he doesn’t even know if he’s in love, but it’s too scary to think of the alternative, isn’t it?”

Till nods, “That’s one way to look at it.”

Ivan’s eyes search through Till, as if waiting for some sort of answer, like he wanted to know every way. The executive agrees wholeheartedly with Ivan’s conclusion, bidding adieu to the pair of men before walking away.

Somehow, they’re in the car now. Ivan’s car. Till’s not sure when that happened. Ivan’s eyes, as usual, were fixed on the road. He thinks they were talking about his music, Ivan asking him for more of his interpretations and Till delivering. Now, they seem to have lulled into a peaceful silence.

Well, until Till decided to open his big fat mouth.

“You were really good out there.”

Ivan smiles, slightly wary, “So you’ve said. I still don’t really get what you meant by that.”

“I mean,” Till waves his hands, “You were just socialising and fraternising and like, being a fancy shmancy little businessman,” Till laughs, “Honestly, I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight if you weren’t there to save my ass every time I did something stupid,”

“None of that matters as much as your actual musical ability; that’s why they signed that deal. Not because of your ability to charm,” Ivan says.

Till sighs, annoyed, “Yes, I know that. But that’s not the point. The point is that,” He looks out the window, unwilling to meet Ivan’s eyes, “You’re kind of made for that sort of life,”

Ivan stays silent.

“High society,” Till says, clarifying.

“Does that trouble you?” Ivan asked candid, “I grew up in that kind of a circle. It’s really something of a second nature to me. So it’s not exactly a skill or anything,”

“It is,” Till insists, “But like, obviously, it doesn’t bother me.”

“I dunno, you seem kinda bothered,” Ivan teases.

Eventually, two minutes later, “It’s just… I don’t belong there,” Till mumbles.

“I’m not made to just shut up and give people filtered, eloquent opinions that aren’t necessarily real, but are certainly educated-sounding. I can’t just know exactly where to touch you, that wouldn’t seem like too much or too little. I wouldn’t—”

“Nobody’s asking you to do all that,” Ivan says, matter-of-fact.

“You’d need that kind of partner, though, wouldn’t you?” Till finally blurts, resting his head back on the reclined car seat. Ivan doesn’t say anything, so Till spares a glance at him.

Ivan’s eyes were imperceptibly blown over, staring at the road like it was a lifeline, “I didn’t, I don’t,” He looks back at Till, “I don’t,” He repeats, with finality.

“The whole time we were there, all I could think about was about how meaningless all of those conversations felt,” Ivan admits, “I didn’t feel anything until your so-called ‘pseudo-parent’ came over,”

“Just call him a friend, goddamn,” Till groans, “What’d he say anyway? You never told me,”

Ivan shakes his head, “Nothing important. However, it made me realise how many people you have in your life.”

His voice dips lower, slightly unguarded, a mixture of an emotion Till couldn’t place, “You’re incredibly loved,” He says, “A partner, they’d have to be worth sharing even an ounce of that love with,”

They’d be lucky, was left unsaid.

Till chuckles, “There you go again, seriously. They wouldn’t have to do anything but be there, and be themselves.”

“That’s naive,” Ivan huffs. A semester ago, it would’ve rattled Till to no end. Now, knowing Ivan a little better than he once had, actions seemed to get through to him more than words did.

Ivan parks the car. Till leans in, plants a kiss on Ivan’s cheek, the one he’d left unkissed. Ivan’s breath hitches.

“I think it’s working for me so far,” Till murmurs, “Wouldn’t you say?”

Ivan’s gaze drops to Till’s lips, “Tell me this again when you’re sober, then I’ll consider gracing you with a reply,” He says.

Till tries not to feel his heart drop.

“Deal’s a deal,” Till says, with a fake yawn, “Guess we should call it a day anyway,”

Whatever.

Do you love me?

You should hate me

Till shakes his head, irritably crossing the line out with his pen in one hand, cap in mouth. It didn’t sound right. Pitiful, desperate, selfish. He scratches his scalp aggressively. Fuck.

That night, the one where he had inadvertently gone ahead and gotten himself tipsy in a room full of people he was meant to impress, in front of Ivan.

‘It’s working for me?’ God, he should’ve just defenestrated out of Ivan’s car window after he was saying all that while he still had the chance.

Do you love me?

Till swallows.

Don’t you hate me? I sure would.

He gets up, endlessly restless. Was black coffee past lunch a good idea? Probably not— whatever, he needed the caffeine. His guitar lies abandoned by the bed as Till gets out of his confines to obtain some much-needed refreshment.

The kettle was still hot to the touch. Till checks their cup cabinet. Sure enough, one was missing. Eh, whatever, Ivan must’ve wanted tea or something. He reaches for the instant coffee powder before pausing.

It was empty.

Till narrows his eyes. He could’ve sworn he left enough for one more serving in there. A fleeting thought flies through his mind, Did Ivan…? No, that couldn't be, he’d never seen Ivan drink the stuff, much less post-noon. It didn’t fit his rigid structure.

Till taps on the glass, ruminating over what period it was in their semester. Finals were still around a month or two away (not that Till really kept track), what could he possibly need coffee for? It was none of his business. It really wasn’t.

He finds himself hesitantly knocking on Ivan’s front door before pushing open the door regardless.

Ivan lay half sprawled over his desk, his cheek pressed over wood as an arm props a textbook in a right-angle direction towards his field of vision. Ivan shuffles slightly, putting the book in a regular position as he sits upright, meeting Till’s questioning gaze.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ivan drawls. Till zeroes in on Ivan’s hair. Soft Curls. Dishevelled.

“I fucking knew it,” Till blurts, his voice laced with mild disbelief, as if he did not, in fact, believe it.

“Knew… what?” Ivan asks, tilting his head. Fuck, the curls shifted. Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk, Till wanted to touch them. He should just die.

“That your straight hair wasn’t fucking straight,” Till croaks out, throwing a palm over his eyes in frustration, “It always curled slightly at the ends, I had a feeling you were gelling it or some shit, but it looked too natural for me to really question it too much,”

“Congratulations.” Ivan states, “Now what was it you needed?”

Wow, ass.

“You finished the coffee,” Till says, lacking any form of propriety.

Ivan hums, gesturing to his full cup of black coffee, “You can drink this if you’d like. I still haven’t gotten to it, just stick it in the microwave.”

“I don’t think you like coffee,” Till points at the filled cup, “So why did you bother making a cup in the first place?”

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see what you loved so much about it?”

“Normally, yeah. But seeing you hunched over your textbooks has me thinking your reason was more… typical,” Till says, “What, is there a midterm soon or something?”

“No, I’m just—” Ivan shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sort of worrying about it,” Till admits, walking over to Ivan. It’s only then that the light emanating from Ivan’s lampshade casts an accurate image of the man in front of him. Tired, almost shaky crimson pupils dart imperceptibly as he makes his way closer,

“What’s wrong?” He finds himself asking, resisting the urge to brush his hands through Ivan’s hair, as if that would soothe his roommate somehow.

Ivan hesitantly looks back at his textbook, “There’s just a lot to catch up on.”

“A lot to catch up on?” Till echoes, confused. Ivan always seemed so diligent, structured and academic.

Ivan hums, “It’s not that it’s particularly difficult, but I’m having trouble caring.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of engineering majors having to deal with some pretty theoretical bullshit you’ve gotta do outside of the actual… uh, building and wiring, stuff,” Till offers, attempting to get it. He really wanted to get it.

Ivan huffs, “I don’t really care about the wiring or building ‘stuff’ either,”

Till furrows his brows, “So then— why pursue this?”

Ivan shrugs, “What else is there?”

"A lot,” Till argues, instantly, “You could do something you enjoy, for starters,”

“And what if I don’t know what that is?” Ivan counters, “Not all of us just came right out of the gate knowing what our lives were going to revolve around.”

His voice trails off, sounding almost bitter by the end of his sentence. Till taps at the edge of his table, searching for something to say.

“We could find it, what you enjoy,” Till says, trying to assert himself.

Ivan smiles half-heartedly, “Thanks, but it’s not like I dislike what I’m doing. I just don’t really care about it. I don’t really think I care about anything,” He shuts his textbook, “I used to do everything in high school, something of an all-rounder, I guess.”

“American football, piano, student council president,” He gestures to an empty breadboard, “I was in robotics club too. It was all fine, I didn’t hate it. I could see myself pursuing any of it,” Ivan sighs, “I just figured, this was a degree that gave me some flexibility in the future, the least risky. So, that’s where I am right now,”

Till doesn’t say much; he thinks Ivan isn’t done. He reaches for Ivan’s hand, gently enveloping his hand over it. A slightly smaller palm, calloused, thumbing over baby smooth skin. Ivan gulps silently, allowing his hand to shake, ever so slightly.

He opens his mouth again, “I envy you, actually,”

Till furrows his brows immediately, “You envy me?” He asks, incredulous.

“I do,” Ivan laughs, “You’re so full of life, Till. You know what you want, and you have the balls to go for it. You're always knee deep in it, I always hear you plucking your guitar strings at the most arbitrary hours in the day or night, never a set or disciplined structure to your method.” Ivan pauses, his gaze skittering away from Till’s, his voice drops, “Sometimes, it’s comforting. It’s like there’s actually life in here,”

Till draws circles over Ivan’s skin, gripping it with precision, “It’s not easy,” He mutters.

“I never said it was.”

Till brings a hand to Ivan’s cheek, tilting Ivan’s face towards his own, earnestly, “We should work together.”

“What? Like, music-wise?” Ivan asks.

“No,” Till shakes his head, before backtracking, “I-I mean, sure, if that’s what you want. But like, we could do anything. You could do your work or whatever, you could read, you could surf the web for more of those ‘interesting factoids’ or yours,” Till clears his throat, terribly shy, “We could just co-exist, the two of us.”

Ivan’s cheeks warm under his touch, “Yeah?”

Till couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help the way the lamp’s amber shade streaks through Ivan’s face, a light dusting of rose over his cheeks, shaky pupils and a desperate plea.

“Could I kiss you?” He blurts, impulsivity brimming through platelets in his bloodstream.

Ivan shudders, quick, almost unnoticeable. He nods. Imperceptible, yet again. Till leans in, before he leans back again, “Are you sure? I-I just—”

Ivan grabs Till by the flimsy tank top strap, pulling him in. Just as Till suspected, moisturised lips. They were. Beyond addicted, Till finds himself pressing deeper, Ivan leaning back over his computer chair’s headrest, a deafening squeak. Till props a knee over the armrest, and Ivan’s arm winds through Till’s waist, pulling him closer, stabilising.

Till swipes his tongue over Ivan’s lower lip, caught on his snaggletooth as Ivan lets out a whimper, and Till feels himself mentally blue screen at the sound. He pushes himself closer, their chests only separated by layers of wool and polyester, parting Ivan’s lips whilst diving deeper, tangling his fingers through curly strands of inky black.

Ivan seemed to like it, if his resulting moan as Till tugged on his hair was anything to go by. They stay mingled in each other's breath and taste, Ivan’s chair leaning further until he snaps back forward in mild panic, separating them through a string of saliva, his grip still steady over Till’s waist, preventing his fall, “The chair,” He gasps, “It’ll snap.”

Till stares at Ivan, almost missing what he said entirely— the vision of an utterly wrecked Ivan swimming through his cerebral cortex in place of whatever was being uttered, “S-so, do we stop?” He asks, eventually, once he finally notices Ivan staring back at him.

Ivan’s eyes dart towards his bed, “Would you like—”

“Yes,” Till breathes, as Ivan smiles, and it’s one of the prettiest ones Till feels like he’s borne witness to. He falls on it immediately, and holy shit.

“Fuck, Ivan,” Till mutters, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Ivan chuckles, settling next to Till with an elbow propped up, “How so?”

“Your mattress, it’s so comfy,” Till bemoans, sighing as he feels himself sink deeper into it. Ivan plants a kiss over Till’s lips, “Keep enjoying it then,” He says, proceeding to spread Till’s legs open enough for him to slot a knee between them as he climbs over Till, “I’ll take the lead.”

Till shivers slightly at the manic sheen reflected against Ivan’s eyes, “Like what you see?” He jokes, his voice trembling.

Ivan strokes a thumb under Till’s under eye, “You have no idea,” He whispers, before closing their distance, yet again. He cups Till’s cheek lovingly, and Till couldn’t help but let out a frankly pathetic noise at the sensation of Ivan touching him, kissing into him, playing with his sweatpants's elastic band teasingly. His hands find their way to the ends of Ivan’s sweater, roaming through Ivan’s bare torso, raking over his chest, pressing into fleshier spots as Ivan lets out breaths, gasps and moans against him.

“I was supposed to be doing the work,” Ivan pouts playfully, “Just relax,”

“Can’t help it,” Till replies, far too honest, “You’re too beautiful.”

Ivan freezes on top of him, his irises alight and quivering, “Oh,” He manages.

Till giggles despite himself, “Why does that shock you? You’re probably the prettiest person ever, actually,” He pecks Ivan’s lips, “You’re perfect, you’re doing so well,”

Droplets of water drip onto Till’s cheek as he watches Ivan cry.

Till panics, almost instantly, “Shit, Ivan, what did I do? Should I like, lay my hand flat? I didn’t realise you—”

“I’m sorry,” Ivan interrupts, with shaky laughter, rubbing himself over his own shoulder to dry his tears. Till stops him, swiftly collecting his tears with his thumb instead, “I guess I needed to hear that,” Ivan says, eventually.

“Is that it?” Till smiles, wild, unbothered, “I can do that any day, any time. Just say the word, ‘affirmation’!”

Ivan kisses Till again in lieu of a response, but it’s softer, longer, a pressing of lips that spoke more than it moved. They switched positions occasionally, wordless, the quiet, desperate sounds echoing against the walls until they both heaved against the mattress in tandem.

“Maybe this is going well for you,” Ivan says, a punched-out laugh.

Till knits his brows, his brain still fuzzy, “What is?”

He huffs, “Forget it. I’m going to freshen up before dinner, you?”

Till gets out of the bed with a sigh, “I’ll make dinner.”

Ivan looks at Till like he wants to say something, before wordlessly getting up and leaving the room. He doesn’t know when he’ll ever get Ivan to stop shutting himself up, but apparently the half an hour long make out session wasn’t enough for him to think so. Whatever. Its fine.

He saunters over to the kitchen, pilfering through their cabinet and fridge for ingredients. He pulls out spaghetti from the corner of the cabinet, brie and cream from the fridge after checking the expiry date. Paprika, pepper, salt. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Plus, Till had a feeling Ivan liked creamy, cheesy (bland) food like this anyway.

Impulsively ripping open a hot cocoa sachet also found in the cabinet, dividing it into two cups, more in Ivan’s, less in his. Hot water and a dash of salt in his, boiled milk with a cinnamon stick in Ivan’s.

“Two bowls?” Till looks up from his phone, locking eyes with a freshly showered Ivan, his hair damp over the towel slung across his shoulders.

Till nods, “I’m assuming you haven’t eaten,” He gestures to the spread in front of them, “Cheesy shrimp pasta and hot cocoa. Eat up,”

Ivan blinks, slowly, “You like spicier things.” He walks towards the cabinet next to the microwave, pulling out a jar of chilli oil, “Put some in your bowl.”

They say cats blink to show affection. Till blinks a little faster, winded, “Okay.”

Ivan sits across from him, taking a sip of his hot cocoa, “It’s sweet.”

“Duh.”

The next morning, Till wakes up to an empty house. Unsurprisingly, Ivan often had early morning lessons he actually didn’t flake on them. What is surprising, however, was the steaming flask of hot black coffee on the dining table, paired with a bright blue sticky note and a drawstring bag.

Tried to make it not taste like dirt. There’s tuna mayo kimbap in the bag! Don’t forget!!!!!

Enjoyyy~~~ <3

Ivanniiieeeeee

Till grimaces at the name, ignoring how his heart felt as if it were going to leap out of his chest.

You

thanks for the food n stuff

Ivan Bf (kinda)

Of course!

Maybe now you won’t look half dead in the mornings

You

I'm going to ignore that so i. keep feeling good about ur gesture.

t h a n k.

y o u.

<3.

Ivan Bf (kinda) is Typing…

Ivan Bf. (kinda) is Typing….

You

is this an essay or what

Ivan Bf (kinda) is Typing….

You

????????

Ivan Bf (kinda)

( ˶˘ ³˘)♡

You

yk there’s a kiss emoji right?

Ivan Bf (kinda)

I put in effort.

appreciate me.

Till.

A lot of thought went into this response.

Till.

You

🖕

that’s how using the emoji keyboard works, btw

edelweiss

UNKNOWN

EP • 13.01.2026 • Latest Release

♡ ↓

1. Unknown (Till the End)

2. All-In

3. Sodas in the Freezer

4. Neptune

5. Mi Vida Loca

“And that’s been UNKNOWN! Thank you and goodnight!” Dewey yells into the mic, post two encore sessions. Till waves wildly at the crowd, a brimming smile, untamed. Encouraging hollers and screams from their fans and audience echo through the humble showing as the band makes their way out through the back.

Isaac sighs, wiping sweat from his brow line with the towel they were offered, “And that’s another one down.”

Dewey nods, enthusiastically, “I feel so pumped! Honestly, I didn’t expect such a massive crowd to show up here.”

“There were definitely more people than there usually are,” Till agrees, gulping water down the bottle a stage handler hands him, utterly quenched.

“Your last concert’s live stream amassed about fifty thousand views,” Luka says, ever-monotonous, “Must be why this venue’s been more packed.”

Till nods, slightly dazed, “I just can’t believe it.”

“Well, believe it,” Luka shrugs, “Your EP did astoundingly well for a fresh indie act. Its numbers honestly might be a new record for the label,”

Luka’s press tour and marketing certainly had helped as well, not that Till was ever going to say it to his face. Their EP did pretty well, with each track averaging somewhere between tens and hundreds of thousands of streams, extremely rare for fresh rock artists in South Korea.

He'd set up a few interviews with local magazine publishers, even performing for a few smaller musical shows he’d booked them slots for— industry know-how Till, Dewey and Isaac had no clue about. Well, Isaac would’ve probably known, but he wouldn’t be arsed to set shit up. Needless to say, their personalities seemed to have resonated with some sort of an audience.

Particularly…

“Who knew your boyfriend would bring us such good press?” Dewey drunkenly slurs.

Till didn’t realise when they’d entered the pub down the road, but he did realise he needed the alcohol based on Dewey’s topic of conversation. He takes a swig from the bottle of beer Luka had ordered them rounds of.

“Ivan’s a growing name in the modelling industry. He’s attractive and is from a family rife with connections to the entertainment industry,” Luka says, clinical, “It was strategic.

“He’s my boyfriend, not my damn show pony,” Till grumbles, guilt bubbling through his stomach bile at the statement. Ultimately, Luka wasn’t wrong when it came to the nature of their relationship, but Till hardly thought of all these additional factors or logistics when he thought of Ivan. Ivan just… made the most sense at the time. Saying it like this, Till didn’t like the implications it entailed whatsoever.

“He’s a very good fan,” Luka says, a meagre attempt at being placating, “Re-posts all of yours and your bands’ posts and stories, in-depth reviews of the songs. It’s a shame he couldn’t have just joined us on tour.”

Till shakes his head, “It’s just a local thing, he’s too busy with all his crazy engineering finals and stuff, I didn’t want to do that to him.”

“Oh, you didn’t invite him?” Isaac asks, mildly confused, “Then why do you keep moping around every time we aren’t on stage like this isn’t some kind of self-inflicted torture?”

“I don’t mope around,” Till rebuts.

Luka stares at him, deadpan, “You’re right. You don’t mope. You just longingly stare at every dessert and talk about how much he’d like it and whether it’d go bad if you were to buy it now.”

“You just tell us sleep isn’t the same without someone clinging to you like a koala— which, by the way, nobody asked,” Isaac adds, with a wince.

Till’s bottle rattles in his hand as he feels himself heat up, “That’s not—”

“You just keep whining over how every café’s Americano doesn’t hit the same.” Dewey pipes in

Till flushes despite himself, “Can we not get into this?” He hisses, “I’m a guy missing my partner.” His eyes find the bubbles of fermentation, wary, “It’s normal.”

Luka shrugs, going back to his phone, probably texting his girlfriend or something— fuck if Till knew. Isaac gives Till a look, unreadable.

“Dewey,” Isaac says, suddenly, “Till and I need a smoke break.”

“I thought we were getting Till to stop,” Dewey’s brows scrunch, before his eyes widen in realisation, “Oh, that kind of a break. Yeah, sure, I wanted to hit on the bartender anyway,”

Isaac rolls his eyes, before they lock onto Till, “Get up.”

Till frowns, “Okay.”

He shrugs his winter jacket on, meeting Isaac outside, inhaling the crisp winter air, “What’d you need me for? Is this some kinda intervention?”

“That depends on you,” Isaac says, slowly, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, taking a drag of his cigarette, freshly lit.

“Well, I don’t know what you’re expecting from me exactly,” Till huffs, freezing palms clenching onto the heat pads in his jacket’s pockets.

Isaac keeps looking ahead, towards cloudy grey streaks through a brilliantly white moon, “I’ve seen him before, y’know,”

Till raises an eyebrow, “Ivan?”

Isaac hums in affirmation, “He used to show up to our tiny gigs, always at the booth with the broken lighting, as if he were intentionally hiding.”

Till feels the frost beginning to numb, “How did— he never told me,” He murmurs, in mild disbelief. He attempts to process this information. Ivan always seemed generally apathetic when it came to his music, whatever he encouraged. Till had always been under the assumption that Ivan was simply keeping up his share of the act in that usual flawless way of his.

“Yeah, well, I asked him about it that day.”

Till’s frown deepens.

( “I didn’t feel anything until your so-called ‘pseudo-parent’ came over,”

“Just call him a friend, goddamn,” Till groans, “What’d he say anyway? You never told me,”

Ivan shakes his head, “Nothing important. However, it made me realise how many people you have in your life.” )

Isaac takes Till’s silence as permission to continue, “I asked him to tell you what eyeliner he uses, for one.”

Till blinks rapidly, “Eyeliner? Ivan doesn’t wear eyeliner.”

“He sure does at the gigs,” Isaac shrugs, “His whole get-ups really nice actually, he could pass for one of us up on stage. Parts his hair down the middle with leather jackets and everything,”

There were times when Till desired not have an artist’s imagination tied to his psyche, and this was most definitely that feeling’s pinnacle.

“I see,” Till says, slow, as if that piece of information didn’t set his very soul and lower region on fire, “Back to what he said…”

“Right,” Isaac chuckles, “He said he’d sneak a stick into your bag one of these days. That’s when I knew the sort of person he was,” He shakes his head, “Mentally fragile.”

“Mentally,” Till’s eyebrows tick, “he’s one of the most stable people I know,”

“He’s promoted us quite well, hasn’t he?” Isaac looks at Till, zeroes in on his right pocket, “When was the last time he’d texted you?”

“That’s not—” Till flushes despite himself, “That’s besides the point.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow.

Till sighs, “He replies to whatever I send him. That’s about it.” He looks up, “That’s all he needs to do anyway,”

“I don’t think your partner—”

“We’re not really dating.” Till finally says, “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Another drag, Till recalls the burning tang that nicotine beheld, “He loves you.” He states, as if the sky were blue.

Till’s heart thumps ferociously, yet Isaac takes no notice nor mercy, “He’s a behind-the-scenes sort of person. He’ll play a perfect role one minute, but that imperfect love, the one that cracks through the recesses of a chipped sculpture, he only lets it bleed when you look away,”

“Why can’t you save the metaphors for the first studio album?” Till snaps, irritation building through his temple, rough and uneasy, “Why in the world would he think his love wasn’t worth telling me?”

“Did you ever tell him what the lyrics in the fifth track were supposed to represent?”

Till kicks at his feet. Mi Vida Loca? Hardly worth mentioning. He says as much, despite Isaac’s displeased expression at his say so.

“The turbulence of love,”

“It’s not polished,” Till sighs.

“It’s not meant to be, from my understanding. It’s chaotic, almost desperate. Unlike Unknown, it feels more intricate. Unknown felt like you were dealing with an unsteady sense of ignorance and infatuation, but Mi Vida Loca feels more like navigation towards some sort of answer you still haven’t quite found.”

“It’s…” Till’s eyebrows knit together in frustration, “I don’t really understand it either. It’s too real, confusing by its nature and even more so when you take its recipient into account.”

“Ivan is real one second, too real, he’s so… tangible, like I finally get to care for him without him falling through the gaps between my fingers,” Till says, before taking a long, winded sigh, "And I love that side of him. I love it when he isn’t as well articulated, when he buffers or can’t mentally simulate an answer based on his internal algorithm. When he’s frustrated, when he’s aroused, when he’s—” He takes a moment, steeling himself.

“When he says the damnedest thing. The type of thing that’ll have you screaming, ‘What the fuck are we?!’. He’d rather fuck you than give you an answer to something so imminent,” Till says. “I want to love him, but I’m not sure if he wants me to, quite frankly,”

“I didn’t invite him to the tour because I’m a fucking coward. I was terrified of him turning me down, questioning why I’d ask in the first place, why I’m tasking him with a debt I can’t repay or some weirdly financially literate bullshit,” Till kicks at the concrete, harder.

Isaac nods, considering, “And now?”

I want him to see me like this. I want him to see me finally ascending. Holding my hand as we climb the stairway.

I miss him.

“There’s nothing I can do about that now, is there?” Till mutters, “Whatever. I’ll deal with whatever we have going on after all this. Fuck, maybe I should just move out,”

Isaac looks at Till like he grew another head, “That was our last show, y’know.”

“There’s still that press bullshit Luka signed up for—”

“Skip it.” Isaac shrugs, “Dewey and I have enough personality to occupy the masses.”

“Dewey and you have enough personality to occupy the masses?” Till echoes, incredulous, “Your average word count per interview has been three and a half, that half either being a poorly disguised laugh at our expenses or an actual cough.”

“Dewey has enough personality to occupy the masses.”

Till’s fingers play with his jacket’s zipper nervously, “I just— I can’t,”

“Acknowledging that you’re a coward isn’t the same as taking accountability for the fact that you are one,” Isaac says, cryptic.

"Speak English.”

“Leave.”

“Fine,” Till sighs, “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Isaac shrugs, “Go on ahead.”

“Thanks,” Till smiles, before backtracking as he came to a sudden realisation, “Wait, did you call him mentally fragile, to his face?”

“Of course not,” Isaac huffs, “Like Dewey said, I gave him the shovel talk.”

The door clicks open as Till turns the key twice, already used to Ivan’s tendencies to double-lock. The house seemed relatively untouched, cleaner than usual— almost clinically so.

“You’re home early.” Till’s head swivels as he hears the deep, velvety voice he had thought about over multiple sleepless nights in a tour trailer. Ivan propped his head up over an arm, leaned over the dining table, with a bored— no, tired expression. Till picks at his nails, trying not to let his disappointment in Ivan’s tone show.

“…Is that a problem?” Till asks, for a lack of anything else to say.

“Of course not,” Ivan huffs, “You could’ve told me, though, I would’ve made something better than buttered noodles and salmon.”

“There’s chilli oil in the pantry.”

“That there is.”

They stare at each other for a while, wordless. Till searches through Ivan’s features, looking desperately until he finds it. He walks closer, impulsive, a palm to Ivan’s cheek, tilting his face towards his own. Ivan’s breath stutters against his, yet he remains expressionless.

He finds it, thumbing at Ivan’s under eye, the smudge of a creamy, matte substance. Ivan’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and Till smiles, like a cat who had just caught the cream, “Concealer? You’d have to tell me the brand you use; I could hardly tell.”

“But you could,” Ivan says, quiet, clear.

“You have this visible vein that streaks through, it almost touches your nose, right here,” Till rubs his finger with just enough pressure to reveal the blue squiggle.

Finally, Ivan’s expression shutters briefly, an opening, “That’s… quite the detail,”

“Isn’t it?” Till looks towards the ceiling for a moment, considering, “You're using concealer. That isn’t surprising, you are a model.”

“I can get it for you,” Ivan’s hand envelops Till’s over his cheek, “For a discount,”

Till huffs, pinching Ivan’s cheek, “Annoying.”

“Only for you,” Ivan says, soft. Too soft. Till wanted to bask in the moment forever, but he withheld, reluctantly.

He prepares himself, “You never did leave that eyeliner in my bag.”

Understanding flashes through Ivan’s eyes instantly, “I was wondering when he’d tell you.”

“And why did you never think of beating him to it?”

Ivan shrugs, “There was never a need.”

“I think there was,” Till argues, “I would’ve known that you— that you were interested, remotely, at the least.”

“What would that have changed, exactly? In the present, I mean,” Ivan asks, pointedly.

“I don’t know, Ivan, it would’ve made me think you wanted this a little more for one,” Till sighs, frustrated.

“Wanted what—”

“You never texted me,” Till blurts, frustration speeding through with reckless velocity.

“I did.” Drifting.

“First. You never texted me first.” Terminal.

Ivan doesn’t say anything, his eyes doing the talking. I didn’t have to.

“Cut the bullshit,” Till hisses, letting his palm fall as Ivan lets go, as if burnt, “You could’ve, y’know. You kept posting about us, promoting us. Nobody asked you to, everyone would still believe you were my partner if you didn’t,” Till’s eyes scrunch, desperately willing the tears to stay within his ducts,

“Please,” His voice cracks, “Tell me it meant something,”

Ivan gets up, “The salmon—”

“The salmon can squirm back through the drainage pipe for all I fucking care,” Till snaps, “Tell me.”

Ivan gets up, unrelenting. He grabs an oven mitt and pulls on the handle. Lemon glaze wafts through their shared space, the sounds of roasting crispy harasu bubbling through the silence.

“You should’ve told me you were coming today,” Ivan repeats, hushed.

Till wants to rip his hair off, “What? So you could run away? Cut me off without a word, but buy every damn album and make your little review for your stupid fucking followers?”

Ivan stiffens, “That’s not what—”

“Isn’t it?” The tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes.

“God, fuck,” Till puts the edge of his wrist against his temple in anger. That was the last thing he wanted to deal with at that moment: “This was a mistake.”

He trudges to his room, heavy footsteps at his wake as Ivan’s grip jerks over the oven tray, “Wait, Till, you can’t.”

“No, Ivan, I can. And I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m the only one who feels literally anything at all right now, and I just… I don’t think I can deal with this right now, or ever. I just need to chill the hell out, maybe we can talk about lease termination papers later—”

“Lease termination?” Ivan interrupts, gaze suddenly alert, “Who said anything about lease termination?”

“I did.” Till says, ever-impulsive, “Any objections?”

Ivan doesn’t say anything, his eyes seeming to shut down, obsidian overtaking crimson, “Go in then,” He says eventually, hollow.

Till twists the knob, letting himself into— a room without a bed. Till rubs at his eyes, willing the hallucination to cease. His guitar stand, desk, stool and easel still remain where they were. Instead of his bead accompanying them, Ivan’s study desk sits there, paired with his keyboard and ice skates lying strewn over the floor.

“I didn’t get to organise it,” Ivan says, frustration leaking through his tone, “I guess that makes it easier for you to pack.”

Till stares, soaking in every detail, yet still so utterly confused. “Ivan, what is this? Where’s my—” He leaves his room in a hurry as a delirious sense of understanding dawns over him. Ivan’s door bursts open, giving way to a new queen bed, a mattress with no fitted sheet on top. Till’s pillows and duvet were thrown over paired with their bunny plushies. Glow-in-the-dark stars stuck all over the ceiling, warm, fuzzy carpets over the floor. A dresser for two, eyeliner and gloss. Moisturiser and hand cream, two of them.

Ivan stands behind Till, deathly still as Till rounds on him.

“How long have you been doing this?”

Ivan looks up, “I’ve reviewed your album, front to back. Not for my stupid followers, not even to promote your band.” Till makes a questioning noise in response.

Ivan smiles, mirthless, “I must apologise, I had purely selfish desires.” He looks at Till, crimson finally beginning to ignite, “When you mentioned certain tracks being born of recently bloomed emotion,” He closes his eyes, “I couldn’t help but wonder.”

“I didn’t want to. It’s dangerous, that stream of thought— but I suppose you could call me desperate,” He opens them again, stepping an inch closer, “Are my assumptions correct?”

“Depends on what they are,” Till says, unwilling to answer directly.

“To reside in my heart…” Ivan says, hesitant, “It’s quite a stupid notion.”

“W-what?” Till narrows his eyes, “Are you calling my lyricism stupid?”

“How does one reside in a home when they are the brick and mortar that are the foundations of its construction?” Ivan asks, “How can you reside in my heart when you’re the fibre of muscle that makes its chambers?”

Till sits on the mattress, stunned into silence, his thoughts running at the rate of about a dozen or so per second.

“Is it normal? How do I think about you?” Ivan scoffs, “I don’t think it is.”

“Nothing about you is normal,” Till finds himself saying, snapping himself out of his daze, “How do you think about me? How do you feel?”

Ivan wasn’t going to cry, not yet. Till knew that. He knew he wasn’t getting sentimentality so easily; he’d need to find an equivalent angle. He looks around the room again, proof of existing emotion lay bare in front of his naked eye; he just needed to hear it.

Please, let me read to you.

“When I first met you, I thought you were crazy,” Ivan says, plainly. Till bites his lip, opting to raise an eyebrow, reluctantly silent but burning with curiosity.

“I didn’t get it. You had a terrible sense of self-care, you stay up at random hours fiddling around with things that don’t even relate to what you study. It took me three months to figure out your major. Illustration, I couldn’t have guessed,” Ivan huffs, “I didn’t understand anything about you, and it killed me.”

“You left a flyer out one day, it was advertising a gathering for local musicians at a local venue. I had nothing else going on, so I wanted to hear from you. To see if the asinine risks you seemingly took were worth it,”

“Were they?” Till asks, mildly terrified of Ivan’s answer.

“You’re something else on stage,” Ivan says, his expression shifting to something more intense than Till had ever seen on the other man up until that point, “Enigmatic, passionate, human. At that moment, any confusion or petty malice evaporated in an instant; all I felt was enamoured.” Ivan’s eyes widened, like he didn’t expect to admit such a thing.

“Is that why you… accepted my proposition? You were intrigued?” Till asks, cheeks burning at Ivan’s last statement.

“Yeah, I guess so. That and, I did genuinely have uses for you,” Ivan shrugs, “I simply thought it was a beneficial exchange. You get your partner, and I get to explore why I felt the way I did, why you fascinated me so.”

“Your little psychological unconsenting lab rat,” Till says, mildly bitter.

“I couldn’t call you unconsenting per se,” Ivan smirks, “You’re the one who set this into fruition in the first place.”

“Well, Ivan? Is this just another hypothesis you want to test?” Till asks, “Because I’m still trying to figure this out.”

Ivan’s expressions flicker between conflict, desperation, and hesitation. “It’s,” He looks around, at a loss for words, “I—”

And then it hits Till. The weeks he’d spent without Ivan, the other man remodelling their home, the other man posting story after story, ploughing through each of Till’s songs, the first to like every update Till posted.

“You’re such an idiot,” Till whispers, as Ivan’s nose scrunches in mild offence before Till speaks up again, “I’m such an idiot.” He gets up, cupping Ivan’s cheek, bringing it closer.

“You were lonely, weren’t you?” Ivan’s irises shake violently in response, and Till barrels on, “You couldn’t text me first, you didn’t understand it, did you? You thought you were sick. Gosh,” Till laughs, delirious, “You’re so stupid, I would’ve killed for a text, Ivan. For a call, I would’ve probably melted to the floor at the sound of your voice,”

“Really?” Ivan asks, dubious, yet hopeful.

Till leans in. Ivan’s arms instantly find purchase over Till’s waist, Till’s palms tangling into his hair magnetically. Dry, Till realises, crazed, he forgot to moisturise. He didn’t.

A shudder, and Till’s hands cradle Ivan’s jaw at a moment’s notice, “Iv?” He asks, “What’s wrong?”

“I missed you,” Ivan chokes out, tears streaming down wet lashes, “Don’t leave,” He continues, desperate, “I’ll put the rooms back in order, I’ll cook forever, even if you’re better at it, I’ll buy us a French press, I’ll—”

“Baby,” Till hushes Ivan with another chaste peck, “I’m not going anywhere,”

It falls on deaf ears, “I wanted to wake up with you, next to you, like how we fell asleep next to each other over movie nights. You liked my mattress more, so I just got that in a larger size. The stars, I arranged them in constellations, I thought I could teach you, you’d like their origins, I feel like,” Ivan blushes, “Or maybe I just hoped you would. I thought we could coexist, your creative process, raking my head over equations, it all feels less monotonous, existential, when it’s you.”

“You’re such a goddamn sap,” Till groans, burying his mortified expression in Ivan’s shoulder, digging further as Ivan’s grip on his shirt tightens, “That sounds great, I’d love that,”

I love you, he thinks.

He looks up at Ivan, equally red-faced. He giggles, pressing a kiss to Ivan’s cheek, “Do you love me?”

In lieu of an answer, there comes a beautiful night over a bare mattress, three words uttered in hushed whispers, littered through the night amidst sweat, tears and adoration.

You

wtf ivan

Ivannie ₊˚⊹♡

Yes loml

You

did u change ur contact on my phone???????

Ivannie ₊˚⊹♡

That might’ve been Mizi.

You

i’m changing it rn

Ivannie ₊˚⊹♡

NO

Anything’s better than Ivan Bf (kinda)

I’m not even a (kinda) Bf anymore

At least remove the (kinda)

Till

Till

Till

You

pick a movie for tonite

i’m ordering pizza

Ivan 🤍

But what’s my contact name?

Till.

Fine, whatever.

We’re watching Cocaine Bear.

You

what.