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Chapter Text

before. 

Mizi is the first to be adopted. 

She cries and cries and cries so hard you’d think she was being sent to live in a dungeon instead of with a lovely, caring family. 

“Sua, I don’t wanna leave you!” Mizi sobs. “Please don’t make me go!” 

Eventually, her new parents coax her away from the orphanage with promises to let her write letters and visit. Sua puts on a brave face, but her nose is dripping. Ivan plasters himself against Till’s side as usual, looking unfazed, like this is just another Tuesday. 

Till cries almost as much as Mizi does. Ivan licks up his tears. Till gets mad and tackles him, which leads to another fight, which earns them both another time out and a long lecture from their caretakers, but later, in their shared, cramped bedroom, with old twin mattresses pushed together and six other boys sleeping soundly around them, Till says thank you. He knows Ivan was just trying to make him feel better. 

Ivan looks confused but tells Till he’s welcome. Then he asks if he can make Till cry again so he can drink some more. 

Till shoves him off the bed. Ivan’s a freak, so he just looks giddy. Ivan quickly crawls back up and wraps his limbs around Till like an octopus, undeterred and greedy for his attention. 

Ivan has always been clingy. It’s like he can’t breathe if he’s not physically plastered to Till’s side. 

Till really hopes Ivan doesn’t leave him, too. 

*

As always, Till’s dreams are unfounded. Just a few months later, two fancy adults decide to steal Ivan and Sua away from him as well. 

Ivan and Sua may not be blood siblings, but they look like them. They will be raised like them. They’re both beautiful, talented, intelligent, calm. The perfect children any parent could want. And they get to stay together. 

Till locks himself in the bathroom and refuses to come out until they’re gone. 

He can’t bear to say goodbye. It hurts too much, and Ivan won’t be here to lick up his tears. 

*

Years pass. The orphanage’s caretakers have long since given up on trying to get Till adopted. Who could want him? 

So they try to keep him busy. At first, they want him to be like a babysitter or role model for the other children, but realize quickly that he’s too awful and angry to help. 

They try to get him more involved with his studies, but he’s too stupid. They teach him to clean, but he’s so stuck in his head that sometimes he’ll mop the same spot on the floor for an hour before someone tells him to stop. 

The only things that seem to capture his attention are art and music. Give him a notebook and he’ll sketch until the sun comes up. Give him any instrument and he’ll play until his fingers are cramped and raw. 

They bring a man in a suit to the orphanage. He seems fascinated by Till’s scribbles, his chaotic words, his messy notebooks. 

The man and the director of the orphanage talk numbers as Till zones out, nibbling absently on his lip, scratching out a tune that forms in his head like a siren’s call. 

“Thank you for your business,” the man says, sliding a black briefcase across the table. Then he kneels down in front of Till and introduces himself as Urak. “Hello, my son. I’m here to take you with me to America.” 

“America?” echoes Till.  

“It’s overseas,” the director explains, then rushes to apologize to Urak, as if terrified he’ll go back on his agreement now that he’s heard Till speak out loud. “I’m so sorry, Till’s just a little slow sometimes, he doesn’t mean—” 

Till scowls. He wasn’t being stupid that time. He’s just confused at why someone would want him from America. 

“Don’t worry,” Urak says pleasantly. “I’ll take great pride in teaching him.”  

*

Life with Urak is much harder than life at the orphanage. 

Everything Till knows about music is self-taught. He hears a song and then he can learn to play it on any instrument. He dreams of a melody and then strums and experiments until he can recreate it. 

He has no idea what the proper form is. Doesn’t understand sheet music. He’s terrible at reading in general, slow and lagging to comprehend, but he’s especially lost when Urak places pages of lines and squiggles in front of him that Till has no way of computing. 

“Why can’t I just do it my way?” Till complains. It’s so much slower like this. More restrictive. Till doesn’t understand it. If he can write music Urak likes without all this fanfare, then why can’t he just stick with it? 

Urak backhands him across the face so fast Till doesn’t even realize what happened until it hits him. 

Till is so much smaller than Urak is. He goes flying into the wall with a crash, lungs punched out and head ringing. 

“You will do it my way or you won’t do it at all,” Urak thunders. 

Till has never been this scared before. The caretakers at the orphanage never liked him—he was too angry, too spirited, too slow, too much for how little he offered in return—but the most they’d do was withhold food whenever they were tired of him, or sometimes forget him in the closet for a couple days. They never hit him like this. 

So he tries. He really does. But he’s always been stupid. Nothing is ever enough. 

Urak breaks all of Till’s fingers, crunching them beneath his boot until Till is screaming. 

“Guess you’ll have to learn to read now,” Urak sneers. “Since you can’t fake it by practicing chords at night in your bedroom.” 

There’s so much pain in the way Urak trains him. But Till guesses he was right about motivation. 

Slowly, painfully, eventually. Till learns. 

*

Till’s first album breaks records. 

Gifted prodigy, the tabloids scream. Songwriting since he was a child. A guaranteed star. 

There are puff pieces upon puff pieces, some of which Till is certain Urak has paid for, but they do the job. Till shoots to notoriety very quickly. He already had an underground cult following from the songs he wrote for other artists, but the public seems even more thrilled for him as a performer. Two of his songs go viral and are overplayed on radio stations and in department stores across the country. 

Till wishes he could go back to just composing. As much as he loves to sing, all the fanfare makes him feel more caged than his windowless bedroom at Urak’s estate. It’s like eyes are on him all the time. Criticizing him. Tearing into him. 

During a live interview, Till lashes out at the host when they try to make a tasteless joke. 

That night, Urak beats Till until he’s sobbing. 

Urak doesn’t break his fingers anymore. They take too long to recover. Two of his digits never healed right, a little crooked and more prone to recurring cramps and fractures. 

It’s unprofitable. Till’s schedule is too packed. He needs them. 

Bruises are better hidden beneath clothes, anyway. Till has a pretty face. Urak says it’s good to market it. 

*

Till learns how to use sex as a commodity when he’s fifteen, traveling on a tour bus with a popular band as their opening act. 

Before he left, Urak made sure Till understood how important this gig was. The exposure was going to skyrocket his career. All he had to do was keep the band happy. Make sure they liked him. Whatever it took. 

“I’m not your little whore,” Till sneered, stupidly unable to keep his mouth shut as always. 

Urak just kicked him around a little before slamming his body against the wall and snarling, “You’re whatever I want you to be.” 

Urak is always right. 

The band is cool and intense. They drink a lot, smoke a lot, party a lot. They tease Till for the way his eyes widen at the sight of coke, and they encourage him to do a couple lines. 

Then they strip him bare and take turns fucking him until he cries. 

“God, you’re so cute,” the lead singer moans, his thrusts deep and harsh inside Till, the sounds messy and wet. “Pretty little thing, so fucking pretty, it’s insane, just look at you, look—” 

Till whines into his mouth. Spreads his thighs wider, lifts his hips into the man’s thrusts. 

Till hates himself for feeling this good. But what he hates even more is how euphoric he feels from their compliments, not just the way they use him, but the way they call him a good boy and tell him how sweet he is, what a perfect whore he’s being, taking them so deep, so well. 

He’s fucking pathetic. Is he really so starved for affection that he’d happily let these grown men use him as long as they praise him a bit? 

He tries not to think about the answer. He already knows what it is. 

“Guess you can do something right after all,” Urak sneers, when Till returns from his tour with dozens more opportunities. 

“Jealous that people actually want me when no one can stand to look at you?” Till taunts back. 

The beating Till gets is worth the look on Urak’s face, even if he does have to wear a cast on his leg for six weeks. Probably. 

At least he can still play music. Till doesn’t need both legs for that. Urak is too greedy to take that away from him now. 

*

When Till is seventeen, Urak is finally murdered. 

It makes national news. The boy with the collar, the story reads. Apparently Urak had been abusing his illegally adopted son and exploiting him in the industry for years. 

The talented musician Till. The brilliant composer Till. Trafficked into a world of pain, ultimately ending in tragedy. They say it was self-defense. No one can blame the poor boy for finally having enough and striking back. 

It doesn’t matter that Till insists he isn’t the one who killed Urak. They see his scars, see his brand, and don’t believe him. 

But it’s just as well. It’s not Till’s fault. They say Urak got what he deserved. 

Till stops denying it. 

There’s a picture of Till that spreads across the internet. He has a black eye, blood running down his temple, and bruises crawling down his neck, still prominent beneath his collar and Urak’s hand around his throat. Even from the terrible angle, Till’s eyes look dead. Like he’s completely given up. 

Till hates it. He hates the pity that comes with it. He hates even more the sad look that the social worker gives him as she tries to give him options on what to do. 

“Do you want to stay here? Or do you want to go back home?” 

“Home?” Till says blankly. He doesn’t understand what she’s getting at. When has someone like him ever had a home? 

“South Korea.” 

For a moment, he sees a flash of four children playing in a garden. He feels a warm body pressed against his side. A tongue swiping his cheek. 

It’s gone before he can hold onto it. Till shrugs. He’s still a minor. He knows he doesn’t have a say in what happens to him. Why should he care? 

For some reason, the woman’s eyes seem to dampen when he tells her this. She takes a moment to discuss something with her colleagues, and then, as always, they make a decision on his behalf. 

Guess Till is being forced back to a country he hasn’t been to in years. 

He wonders if he’ll finally die there.

after. 

“Hey, kid, have you seen my jacket?” 

“Check behind the bar,” Till calls, without glancing up. The rest of the band may be setting up the stage for their gig tonight, but they let Till sprawl out on the floor surrounded by sheet music, knowing not to bother him when he’s like this. 

When inspiration strikes, stop, drop, and write. That is his motto. Nothing else matters. It’s cool that his bandmates support that. 

Hyuna can be a little forgetful though. “Oh, shit, it really is here! How did you do that? Till, were you the one who hid it?!”  

Isaac sighs. “Hyuna, you always stuff your jacket behind the bar before we start setting up, and then you always forget about it. It doesn’t take a genius to guess.” 

“Well, if you knew where it was, why the hell didn’t you tell me?” 

“I didn’t know you were looking for it!” 

Till tunes them out, refocusing on his sheet music. He tests a few chords on his guitar, tweaks them a little, then tries again. Nods. Writes it down. F suspended 2nd chord, A minor 7th, G suspended 4th chord. Two measures, one measure, one. Replays with the chord progressions and extends it, humming the melody, then nods to himself again. Writes that down, too. Wait, he fucked up the letters. He plays it on the guitar again to double check, then rewrites it, more carefully this time. Stupid, stupid. Stop fucking up. Not everyone has a dumb brain like you do. Fsus2, Am7, Gsus4. The pages hurt his eyes, but the music works. Add some hammer-ons, palm muting the pre-chorus. With the lyrics already written and the strumming pattern noted, he just needs to transcribe the melody for the others and then—

“Sounds good, kid.” 

Till startles a little, actually glancing up to see Dewey crouching in front of him, eyes flickering appreciatively over Till’s mess. 

“It’s the chaos of a genius,” Hyuna always laughs whenever Till apologizes for his disorganized writing method. “We don’t mind one bit!” 

“The new song won’t be ready for tonight’s show,” Till warns. 

Dewey looks amused. “I didn’t expect it to be.” 

“I mean it. At best, we might be able to debut it next week. At worst, it’ll be completely unusable by the time we get to the studio. There’s this part of the bridge I want to try out during rehearsal before I change anything, and—” 

Two more laughs join in with Dewey, and Till turns in surprise to notice Hyuna and Isaac have also gathered around behind him, expressions fond. 

“Dude, you know you don’t have to write a new song like every other week, right?” Isaac grins. “You’re kind of fucking crazy. Every time I tell myself there’s no way you’ll create another hit, you blow me out of the water.” 

Till scowls. “Are you seriously betting against my productivity?” 

“He’s just saying you don’t have to work so hard,” soothes Dewey. “Even if you never wrote another song for the rest of your life, we’d still have enough material to do a dozen different shows. Seriously, I still can’t believe we landed you in the first place. Why are you with us again?” 

“Our sweet little Till, slumming it with some tiny nobody band in buttfuck, Korea.” Hyuna throws an arm over Till’s shoulder, grinning wider when he yelps from the balance displacement. Till’s not exactly short, but they all dwarf him significantly in height and muscle mass, so he’s used to being dragged around like a ragdoll. “Oh, whatever would we do without him?” 

Till’s face goes hot. “S-shut the fuck up! You’re being ridiculous!” 

They laugh again at his expense, but it’s warm. They sound so fond. The three of them may think of Till as some (completely unworthy) savior to their struggling, then-unknown band, but for Till, they’re the ones who saved him. 

He was a mess when he was shipped back to Korea. He didn’t deserve their patience or kindness, and yet they gave it to him anyway. 

He doesn’t know if he’d have fallen back into love with music if it hadn’t been for them. Years later, and he still doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to repay the favor, no matter how many songs he writes for them. He really should be dead. 

Till glances around at the stage of the venue they’re playing at for this particular gig, decent sized and well taken care of. “You guys wanna start the dress rehearsal soon or…?” 

“In a bit,” says Hyuna. “Isaac wants to do a quick sound check to test the amps and make sure they’re working right after Dewey nearly killed us on the drive here.” 

“Hey! That squirrel came out of nowhere!” 

Nodding, Till returns his attention to his sheet music, thinking that’s that. He still has time. But Hyuna doesn’t leave, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. 

Till sighs. “What?” 

He can practically hear the hesitation in her breath. Then she says, terribly casual, “So I heard Ivan’s dropping by tonight.” 

Till’s pencil stops moving, but he forces it to continue after only a few seconds. “Is that right.” 

By heard, Hyuna means she invited him. This gig is close enough to where Ivan lives that Till should’ve expected it. Apparently she knew Ivan before she met Till, and she’s always had a soft spot for him. 

Till knows what she’s trying to do. But then, because he knows she means well but wishes she wouldn’t meddle, Till adds, “I invited Jun, too.” 

Three simultaneous groans fill the air. Serves you right, Till thinks pettily. 

“Noooo, Till, why?” Dewey moans. “Jun is such an ass! He’s literally only using you for sex!” 

Yeah, that’s kind of the point.

“And Ivan—” 

“Ivan nothing,” Till interrupts. “We barely know each other now. We’re not even friends. I don’t know why you keep pushing this.” 

“That’s because he—” Isaac cuts himself off, likely because of the very obvious not now signal Hyuna mimes across her throat. Isaac swallows. “He just—he wants to be your friend again. You can see that much, can’t you? Why won’t you give him a chance?” 

When Urak was raising him, he gave Till lessons on desirability. “No one will want you as you are,” Urak told him. “You’re just a liability. You’re useless. You’re stupid. You’re a waste of time and space. But once you’re famous, that will change. All the people who never gave a damn about you before will come crawling out of the woodwork, begging for a minute of your day.” 

Ivan never wrote to Till after he was adopted. He never visited or called. Till cried his eyes out for weeks after Ivan was gone, but Ivan forgot all about him. He never cared. 

Ivan only reached out again when Till’s return to Korea made waves in the media. Till was the talk of the town, and Ivan, a rising model from what Till could hear about him, wanted a piece of that. 

Till is used to being used by everyone around him. But it hurts knowing that's all Ivan wants from him, too. 

Maybe it’s selfish to keep Ivan at arm’s length. Till should just be grateful Ivan is paying attention to him at all. 

But he can’t. Till clung to those memories of their time together so tightly. If he shatters them with the truth, he doesn’t know if he’ll survive. 

*

Mizi and Sua tag along to the gig. 

After the show, they gather backstage to gush and coo. 

“Till, you were amazing!” Mizi gasps. “Hyuna, you too! You were like—ahhh! So cool!” 

Sua snorts. “You didn’t mess up, at least.” 

“Very impressive,” Ivan agrees, with that same insincere, punch-worthy smile he always wears. 

The three of them stayed in touch after they were adopted. Whenever Till sees them, they seem happy. Close. Apparently it was only Till who was left behind. 

Shrugging, Till averts his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Thanks, I guess.” 

Even without looking up, Till can feel them exchange glances around his head. 

“S-so I was thinking!” Mizi blurts. “Once you’re finished cleaning up here, do you wanna—” 

“Sorry, I have plans,” Till interrupts. 

If this were ten years ago, he would’ve broken his own arm for daring to cut off Mizi like this. But as much as he still adores her—as much as it hurts knowing he’s always liked her way more than she ever cared about him—he can’t stay. Outside of performances where he can drown himself in the music and pretend everyone else doesn’t exist, Till has a hard time being around large groups of people while sober. These days, he prefers to be alone, high, or with only one other person lodged deep inside him. Anything else feels like too much. 

Ivan’s already fake smile turns razor-sharp. “Oh? Plans? With who?” 

Somewhere to the left, Isaac whimpers. 

“Hey, baby, sorry I’m late.” Jun materializes behind Till like a wraith, one arm immediately winding around his waist. His other hand cups Till’s face and turns him just enough for Jun to claim a kiss. 

Till lets him. But when he opens his eyes, Jun’s own eyes are already open, directed behind Till like a taunt, gloating and cruel. 

Till scowls and shoves him away. “Don’t be a dick.” 

Jun and Ivan hate each other viciously, and it always gets on Till’s nerves. Can’t they at least try to leave him out of it? He doesn’t want to be dragged into their drama. They don’t even work in the same industry, so Till has no idea what they’re always fighting about. 

“What do you mean?” Jun says innocently. Till’s shove doesn’t faze him. He remains plastered against Till’s side, his hand slipping beneath Till’s loose shirt to curl against the large tattoo crawling up his side. The tattoo Jun put there. “I just wanted to give my princess a kiss.” 

It’s like the air is zapped by lightning. Even Mizi visibly bristles. “He’s not—” 

“I was just kidding, jeez. None of you know how to take a joke.” Jun rolls his eyes. Tightens his grip around Till. “Angel, you ready to leave yet or what? This place is crowded as fuck and smells like BO. I wanna go home.” 

“You know I have to help clean—” 

“It’s fine, Till.” Hyuna gives him a tight smile. “You guys can head back. We can handle the rest from here.” 

“Wait, really? You sure?” 

That’s when he realizes Hyuna’s not the only one who looks tense. Everyone else looks equally on edge, either like they’re about to jump into a fight or are preparing to have to break one up. 

They all really hate Till’s fuck buddy, huh? 

Till sighs. “Alright, alright, we’re going. Call me if you need anything, yeah?” 

“Uh huh,” Isaac says, his gaze flicking almost frantically between all the others, like something terrible will happen if he isn’t able to keep them all in his line of sight, all at once.  

Very deliberately not looking at Ivan, Till hooks his fingers in the front of Jun’s shirt and leads him away. 

“You need to stop picking a fight with everyone,” Till says later, when they’re back in Jun’s apartment. Most of their clothes have been discarded, and Till is settled on Jun’s lap. 

Jun snorts. Kisses the piercings on Till’s ear. Smooths his thumbs over Till’s prominent hip bones and his skinny thighs bracketing Jun’s hips. “I’ll learn to be civil when they do.” 

This is one of those chicken-and-egg scenarios. Both sides insist the other was rude first and that they’re just responding in kind. 

If Till were being honest, he’d admit he doesn’t know who’s right. He just knows they all hate each other now. 

Till sighs. “At least—” He breaks off with a gasp when Jun shifts his hips a little, just enough so the pierced head of his cock slides against the slick opening of Till’s cunt. “H-hey, don’t—” 

“Don’t what? Don’t fuck you, when you’re already this wet for me? Don’t use you, when I know how desperate you are for it?” 

Till’s face burns. “W-we—we’re trying to have a conversation—” 

“Later,” Jun murmurs. “Right now I just wanna be inside you.” 

And then he flips them over, pins Till to the bed, and pushes in, all with one thrust. 

Till throws his head back with a loud moan, practically shaking from the force of it. No matter how many times they do this, Till will never get used to the stretch, the feeling of being full, and the sensation of being spread open as if it’s the very first time. 

It feels so good. He needs this so much. Till doesn’t think of himself as an addict, but sometimes he feels he might be when being split apart makes him feel this delirious with want. 

Jun fucks him exactly the way he knows Till likes it: hard and fast, all while spoiling Till with sweet words. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Jun croons. “God, you’re perfect, you’re gorgeous, you take me so well.”

Till comes quickly, and again. Cries and hiccups and gasps. It’s like being used and worshiped all at once. Till’s embarrassing. He’s so desperate for it. They keep at it until he’s unconscious. 

The next morning, Till feels guilty. He knows his bandmates are just worried about him. On the surface, his arrangement must look like a mess. 

They’ll never understand how Till is the one who needs this. Till is the fucked up one here. Jun is understanding and kind. He gives Till everything he needs and asks for nothing in return. 

The least Till can offer is sex. He’s not worth much else.

Till never wanted to be an actor, but the offered role comes with too much hype. The casting director is insistent on signing him, like he won’t even consider someone else for the part. 

Till and his agent get into an argument about how he’d be stupid to deny this.

“I don’t care about fame,” Till says vehemently. He’s already more prominent than he’d like to be, and he doesn’t need the money. With his songwriting royalties, concert payouts, and the exorbitant estate he inherited through Urak’s death, he could stop working today and be set for life. All he cares about is making music. 

“Maybe you don’t,” agrees his agent, “but what about Hyuna, Isaac, and Dewey? Don’t you think they’d like to be more successful? They don’t have hefty bank accounts to fall back onto like you do. Their sole source of income is the band.” 

It’s a critical blow, and his agent knows it. Till clenches his teeth. 

“This part will be good for all of you,” his agent adds, sensing Till weakening. “Its success will only bring more positive attention to the band. All fanpolls have already indicated that they wish you’d do more solo projects and publicity.” 

Till hates how easy he is. Even if it is for the others, he despises how quickly his agent gets him to cave to his whims. It’s like nothing has changed. 

Well, whatever. This is barely a scratch. Till is used to doing things he doesn’t want. 

Then he learns who his co-star is. 

“Oh? I never knew you wanted to be an actor, Till.” Ivan smiles like he wants to be punched in the face, and Till has to dig his nails into his palms to keep from being the one to do it. 

“I don’t,” Till says flatly. 

“Of course you don’t,” Ivan agrees pleasantly. 

“I mean it.” 

“I’m sure you do.” 

“God, why are you so—” 

“And I’m sure Hyuna and the others appreciate it as well,” Ivan continues, making Till freeze. “They really do love you a lot. They must feel very emotional that you’re willing to go this far for them.” 

Till’s throat feels suffocatingly tight. How can Ivan always see through him like that? How is that fair? He quickly averts his gaze, going back to looking over the script, as if he could possibly absorb anything now. “W-whatever.” 

Even without looking at him, Till can feel Ivan beam. 

*

Ivan, unfortunately, is a very talented actor. Must be easy for him considering his entire personality is a lie. Seriously, does he ever take a break? 

Ever since Till was brought back to Korea, he’s gone out of his way to avoid spending time with Ivan one-on-one. He dodges most get-togethers and outings, and only attends parties when he knows there’s gonna be a big enough crowd and abundance of drugs to get him through. 

One time, Mizi invited him out for lunch with the three of them only to cancel for her and Sua last minute, claiming they were sick. She encouraged Till and Ivan to continue without them. Till, already at the restaurant when he got her message, took one look inside the glass front window, saw Ivan sitting alone there, and immediately turned tail and ran. After he was safely home, he messaged them saying he was sick as well. 

Till is pretty sure they all knew he was full of shit, but crappy behavior is a mirror. Can’t they tell Till is avoiding Ivan on purpose? Why do they keep trying to force it? Don’t they care what he wants at all? 

Of course not, his mind sneers at him, always sounding too much like Urak. You’re just another stepping stone. Who could ever care about you? 

They start with a casual table read of the script. During breaks while the others mingle, Till awkwardly ducks away from the rest of the cast and crew, finds a dark corner to hide in, and plugs in his headphones. 

Ivan, asshole that he is, refuses to leave Till alone. 

“Ignoring all your castmates to wallow in your music alone like a loser?” Ivan’s voice is markedly pleasant, even if the look in his eyes is not. “A little rude, isn’t it?” 

Before Till can stop him, Ivan steals one of his earbuds and pops it in, ignoring Till’s angry, “Hey!” and his catlike swipes to get it back. But then it’s too late. Ivan must realize what Till is listening to. 

Ivan’s brows shoot up his forehead. “Is this a robotic reading of the script?” 

“It’s a fucking screen reader, you ass!” Till tries to grab the earbud back, but Ivan only tightens his grip on it, effectively holding it hostage. “I’ve already gone through the scenes we’re doing today a few times. I’m just reading ahead now.” 

“I didn’t realize they handed out electronic copies.” Ivan likely only got the printed version of the screenplay, like the rest of the cast. 

“They don’t. I requested one.” 

“Why?” 

Till hates how easy his face is to read. He quickly averts his gaze, but he knows his cheeks are already red. He knows Ivan is sharp enough to guess. “I fucking wanted to, that’s why. Now go away, I’m busy. Leave me alone.” 

Ivan doesn’t. He remains silent; calculative. Till can feel his eyes bore holes into the top of Till’s head. Then, “Do you have a learning disability?” 

Blunt and tactless as always. Even knowing this is just how Ivan is, Till still flinches. “Fuck you.” 

“That’s not what I asked,” Ivan says. “You’re dyslexic? I’d say I’m surprised, but in all honesty it makes sense. You were always slow at reading back at the orphanage, and you only pretend to look at the menu when we go to restaurants, like you make sure to check the options online beforehand. I just assumed that was for your anxiety.” 

Hurt and shame burn hotly in Till’s chest. How easily Ivan discusses his flaws, as if it’s obvious Till is riddled with them. 

“I can read,” Till says defensively. “It just—takes a while, sometimes, and I don’t always get it right.” Listening at the same time makes the lines easier to process. Easier to remember, too. Till is much better with his ears. A musician’s skill, probably. 

Ivan’s usually perfect mask is actually marred by a small crease between his brows. “Dyslexia isn’t listed in any of your academic or medical files.” 

“Yeah, well.” As if Urak would ever get him officially tested for something like this, let alone leave evidence of it on any of his records. Just another fucking imperfection for Urak to hate him for. “Wait—what the hell were you doing reading my files anyway?!” 

“This screen reader is awful,” Ivan says, ignoring him. “It’s so stiff and robotic. Can you even learn your lines like this?” 

“S-screw you! It’s not even that bad! It’s just an assist tool. Obviously I don’t use it for any sort of acting. It’s just to help me memorize the words and—” 

“You should practice your lines with me instead,” Ivan interrupts. 

Till stops. Stares. “What?” 

“Was I speaking too fast for you? No wonder memorizing is taking so long.” 

“Fuck you,” Till snarls, reflexive and emphatic. “If you’re gonna keep making fun of me—” 

“On the contrary, I’m being very sincere. This—” Ivan taps the earphone. “—can’t be very productive. If we’ll both be working through the script anyway, wouldn’t it make more sense for us to do it together?” 

Till hates that he’s actually tempted. Because Ivan’s not wrong. Using a screen reader to help him study is tedious at best and excruciating at worst. The tinny, mechanical voice makes it hard for him to be fully immersed in the writing, and his stupid, easily distracted brain often zones out every fifteen seconds, so he has to replay the same lines again and again. 

The pros are numerous, but the one major con makes Till hesitate: he’ll have to spend significantly more time with Ivan. 

Ivan smiles a little meanly, like he knows the reason Till is still on the verge of declining his overly generous offer. “If you’d rather spend hours and hours listening to an automated voice mispronounce our characters’ names, be my guest. I’m sure it’ll be very fun for you.” 

Damn it all. “You’re such a dick,” Till snaps, shoving Ivan’s shoulder. He yanks at the earbud again. Thankfully, Ivan lets it go this time. “Just—fine, whatever,” Till mumbles. “But only because I’m growing to hate this stupid automated voice more than I hate you!” 

It’s so unfair how brightly that makes Ivan beam. Till will never understand the way Ivan can go from rude, sociopathic dickhead to cute, overexcited puppy in two seconds flat. It’s a goddamn mystery. 

The rest of the rehearsal passes without further incident. After everyone is packing up to leave, Ivan corners Till and asks if they’ll be studying at Ivan’s place or his. 

“W-wait, tonight?” There’s still a ton of time. They don’t start seriously filming for weeks. 

“Why not?” Ivan says. “The sooner we memorize all our lines, the better. Unless you’d rather put it off until the last minute and be that actor who keeps holding up production because he couldn’t put the effort in beforehand.” 

Ugh, Till hates when Ivan makes sense. Condescending prick. “Meet me at my place in an hour. I have something to do first.” Till doesn’t bother telling Ivan his address. He’s pretty sure the weirdo already knows it, despite never having been invited over in the past. 

“Why? I’ll just come with you,” Ivan says. 

Till frowns. “Didn’t you drive here?” 

“I fail to see the correlation in those two statements.” Before Till can argue more, Ivan begins ushering Till the door and continues smoothly, “We should head out before it gets any later. Traffic and all.” 

Till gives Ivan the stink eye but ultimately decides against protesting. Ivan can be absurdly stubborn when he wants to be. “Fine, but I need to drop by the pharmacy on the way.” 

Holding the door open for Till to walk through, Ivan furrows his brows, and his gaze goes laser-sharp. “Are you sick? You haven’t been exhibiting any signs of illness aside from your typical insomnia, fatigue, and overall irritability. If you’re not feeling well, I’ve pre-compiled a list of remedies that could help boost your energy and mood considering your succinctly unhealthy lifestyle and—” 

What the actual fuck. “S-shut up, you freak, I’m fine! It’s nothing like that. I just need to pick up the refill for my birth control.” 

Till is halfway down the hall when he realizes Ivan isn’t following him. Till throws a glance over his shoulder and frowns. 

“Oi, what’s wrong with you? You coming or what?” 

Ivan is mercifully, miraculously silent on the way to the pharmacy. He stands a little too close to Till in line, and Till is pretty sure Ivan terrifies the pharmacist with his scarily blank expression and somewhat supernatural ability to look like he’s surrounded by carnivorous black shadows whenever he’s in a mood, but it’s fine. Better than Ivan constantly pestering him, at least. 

Till should’ve known it wouldn’t last. 

“How long have you been seeing Jun again?” 

Startled by the sudden question, Till blinks, distracted as he buckles in his seat belt. “I dunno, six months or something?” 

“Eight.” 

“Huh?” 

“You’ve been sleeping with him for eight months,” Ivan clarifies, and Till gapes. 

“What the fuck? How do you—? And why’d you even ask if you already knew then, jerk?!” 

“You don’t usually stick with one fuck buddy for this long,” Ivan continues, strangely sidestepping the question. “Is there a reason you keep letting Jun fuck you instead of doing what you usually do and move on to someone else?” 

So now he’s calling Till a slut, too?! Jesus, how has no one killed him yet? Till can’t be the only person he annoys like this. There must be others who are tempted. “You—”

“Are you in love with him?” 

Till is lucky they’re still in the pharmacy parking lot because otherwise he’s sure he would’ve swerved them off the road. “Wh—n-no, of course not! That isn’t—” 

“Is it because he’s your tattoo artist? I’m sure there are others who would also give you preferential treatment if you asked.” 

“I am not sleeping with him for free tattoos—” 

“Then why?” Ivan presses. “If you used to prefer short-term arrangements, what makes Jun so different?” 

“I—I don’t know.” Till feels caught; trapped. He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t want to, but Ivan is looking at him with such wild intensity that Till feels helpless to deny him. It’s like being suffocated in a black hole. “I-it’s just—easier, I guess? More convenient. More comfortable. And—less risk. Y’know, after what happened with Sangwoo.” 

Sangwoo was a guy Till only slept with twice, but he ended up being a huge pain in Till’s ass—and not in the fun way. What should’ve been an easy, forgettable hookup turned into a grueling circus when Sangwoo took photos of Till’s bare back after he fell asleep next to him and sold them to the highest bidder. 

The tabloids weren’t as vicious because of the controversial nature of Till’s skin—though of course that never stopped them from publishing the pictures anyway—but the pity was almost worse. Till was too anxious to leave his house for weeks after that. He even tried to quit the band. 

All the comments online, all the looks he’d get in public, all the renewed forum discussions into whose fault it must’ve been and how rumors showed Till acted like a whore even after he was free from Urak’s control, so obviously Till must’ve liked what Urak let happen to him… It was too much. 

Till knew what he looked like. Knew how hideous his scars were. He didn’t need the whole world to see them, too. 

Ivan’s eyes darken impossibly more at the mention. After Sangwoo leaked the photos, Ivan disappeared for three days for seemingly no reason, and so did Sangwoo. 

Immediately after, Sangwoo dropped off the face of the earth. Quit his job, sold his apartment, and vanished, never to be heard from again. 

Till is sure there’s no correlation. 

Still, he never asks. 

“If the only reason you’re still sleeping with Jun is because it’s proven to be convenient, does that mean anyone you trust is fine? Or does it have to be him?” 

At that, Till groans, finally seeing where this is going. “Did Hyuna put you up to this? Jeez, you guys really hate him, huh? If the band doesn’t want Jun coming to gigs anymore, she could’ve told me herself.” 

Ivan’s eye twitches. “Does this mean you’ll stop having sex with him?” 

“T-that’s—ugh, I can’t do this with you!” Till grips the steering wheel, pressing his forehead against the curve. “Why can’t you just leave my sex life alone? This is none of your business. It has nothing to do with you.” 

Ivan mumbles something Till doesn’t quite catch. 

“Huh? What was that?” 

“I said you should take the expressway to your apartment,” Ivan says. “It’ll be faster.” 

Oh, thank god. Till starts the car and quickly pulls out of the parking lot before Ivan can change his mind.

“So I heard you and Ivan have been spending a lot of time together lately,” Hyuna says at practice one day. She’s clearly trying to be casual, but Hyuna is an open book with a clear glass cover and large pictures on every page. Excitement radiates from her pores. 

Till gives her a dead-eyed stare. “We’re starring in the same TV series.” 

“A little birdie told me it’s more than that. They said Ivan’s been going to your apartment after rehearsal almost every day, and he doesn’t leave until it’s really late.” 

Till frowns. “Are you bribing my concierge?” That’s a security risk, isn’t it? He should really speak to management. 

“Not the point,” says Hyuna smoothly. “C’mon, kid, you’re killing me over here! No details to share at all? I’d ask Ivan himself, but he’s so… well, y’know—” 

“Obnoxiously shameless and completely messed up in the head?” 

“Yeah, exactly!” 

“Look, I don’t know what you’re expecting to hear,” Till says tiredly. “We just run lines together until Ivan annoys me enough that I kick him out.” 

“Oh yeah? Then why do you look like you haven’t slept in days?” 

Till almost replies, “Fuck you, I always look like this,” as a reflex, but he knows that isn’t fair. This time, he gets what she means. 

The thing is, Till likes spending time with Ivan. Ivan is relentless and infuriating, acting like it’s his own personal mission in life to make Till’s blood pressure rise as much as possible, but beyond that, he’s thoughtful. He’s kind. He’s freakishly obsessive about it, but he goes out of his way to show he cares. 

And therein lies Till’s problem. 

Ivan’s version of friendship is… kind of unhinged. It’s like being invited into Till’s home has awakened some sort of frenzied, vampiric floodgate in him, and now he’s been rubbing himself all over Till’s life, trying to assert his claim. 

And by that, Till means Ivan is trying to turn him into some sort of health nut. 

Ivan cleaned out Till’s entire kitchen. He bought professional pots and pans that can be used for cooking, stocked Till’s pantry with spices and necessities, and got rid of all Till’s hard liquor while leaving only a few expensive wines to occasionally accompany a meal.

He even replaced all of Till’s frozen hot pockets with organic versions! Who does that? Till didn’t even know there were healthy versions of lazy freezer meals in the first place. 

And not only does Ivan cook for Till whenever he’s there and creepily watch Till eat every bite like a hawk eyeing its prey, he insists Till eats at least twice a day. 

“Once isn’t enough,” Ivan scolds him, like a disappointed grandparent. “You’re all skin and bones. Most days you look like if you ran into a bunny, the bunny would win. What if you want children? Carrying them would break you in half.”  

“S-stop groping me, you freak!” 

“I can feel your ribs through your sweater. You’re still not gaining weight. Maybe I should sleep over to make sure you eat breakfast, too.” 

That’s about the time where Till throws Ivan out of his apartment and swears he’s never allowed over again. 

(The threat never sticks.) 

When Till explains this to Hyuna, she throws her head back and laughs so loud that Isaac drops whatever he’s doing to pop his head in from the other room, wanting to make sure they’re okay. 

“The kid’s got spirit, that’s for sure!” she cackles. 

Till groans. “Don’t encourage him! See, this is why I never tell you things!” 

The next day, Ivan comes over after rehearsal again. He lasts a surprising full hour of reading through lines and being (infuriatingly, gently) patient with Till’s slowness before he starts counting Till’s multivitamins. 

“You haven’t been taking them every day,” Ivan says, frowning. “Are they not sitting well in your stomach? I can buy you gummies instead if that’s more preferable.” 

Till resists the urge to start banging his head against his coffee table. “I already told you I don’t need them! Stop trying to micromanage my nutrients!” 

“If you’re going to ignore my requests to eat more regularly, the least you can do is—” 

Till kicks him out. Ivan is clearly surprised—he can usually get away with so much more absurdity before Till’s patience snaps, at least enough to feed him once—but Till is tired, irritated, and quite frankly too horny to be treated kindly like this. If Ivan doesn’t stop mother henning him, Till is gonna climb him like a tree. 

Once his apartment is Ivan-free, Till whips out his phone. 

Till: are youhome 

Till: im coming over 

Till: if i see anthoer vegetable im gonna scream 

Till: ineed sodium and i need dick 

Completely nonsensical and ridiculous, but Jun responds immediately anyway. 

Jun: Sounds good, baby. See you soon

By the time Till makes it to Jun’s place, he is twitchy and full of rage, unsure if he’s ready to rant or ride Jun’s cock until he can’t think, but then Jun ushers him inside to where he has a spread of Till’s favorite fried chicken and tteokbokki on the coffee table, and Till almost bursts into tears. 

“You got all this for me?” 

Looking endeared at Till’s embarrassing reaction, Jun curls a hand behind Till’s neck and kisses the top of his head. “I just picked up a few things from that place you like down the street while I was waiting. You haven’t eaten yet, right? C’mon, I’m working on a tattoo design. You can rant to me while you eat.” 

And that’s how they end up sitting together on Jun’s couch, with Jun sketching away on his tablet while Till curls up next to him, needy and hormonal and stuffing his face. 

See, this is what Till needs right now! Someone who doesn’t care about his arteries and will let him fuck up his blood sugar if he feels like it. Someone who’s just okay with using Till now and doesn’t make him feel like a failure for not being able to make plans for himself beyond living until tomorrow. 

(He ignores the part about how his chest grows warm whenever Ivan fusses over him, and how good it feels to be taken care of. He ignores the way his cheeks heat whenever Ivan smiles, and the prickle of yearning that crawls up his throat whenever Ivan looks at Till like he’s someone he could actually adore.) 

Stupid, stupid Till. He thought he had the possibility of hope beaten out of him ages ago. 

“Thanks for not trying to turn me into some sort of doctor’s dream patient,” Till mumbles to Jun instead, resting his forehead tiredly against Jun’s shoulder. “It’s so much easier being around people who don’t really care about you. Less room to disappoint.” 

For a moment, he thinks he feels Jun still. But when he glances up, blinking slowly in his mental exhaustion, Jun’s expression is normal, still focused on his drawing. “That bad, huh? Why don’t you just tell him to stop coming over?” 

Till ignores the way his stomach tightens at the thought. He’s trying to ignore a lot, these days. “As if Ivan would agree. Have you met him? Dude’s a freaking wall! He doesn’t listen to a thing I say.” 

“I could tell him to back off for you, if you want,” Jun offers, almost too casually. 

Till snorts. “And make your dumb rivalry even worse? No thanks. You two fight enough as it is without me getting in the middle of it. Seriously, why do you guys hate each other so much? I tried asking Ivan about it once and he just got all smiley and weird.” 

Jun’s lips twitch. “Maybe I just dislike his face.” 

This reignites Till’s rage. “Right?! It’s so stupid!” Stupidly handsome. “Why does he look like that? I hate him!” 

A couple days later, Till gets his period. Life makes a lot more sense.

Memorizing the script is much easier with Ivan’s help. By the time filming begins, they can both recite their lines in their sleep. 

It also means Ivan should have no reason to come over anymore. 

He still does. 

“Did you bribe my concierge, too?” Till demands when he comes home one night to find Ivan in his kitchen, wearing a Hello Kitty apron and frying something over the stove. 

They didn’t even film together today. Ivan was the only one on the call sheet. Till spent all day with the band, rehearsing two of the new songs he wrote for them in stress-induced all-nighters that had the set makeup artists heavily berating him for his eyebags. 

Ivan blinks innocently. Or as innocently as he can with that stupid freaking (absurdly attractive, like what the fuck, who looks like that) face. 

“You should learn to like olives,” Ivan says. “They’re good for you.” 

Till might have to move. 

At the very least, Ivan seems to have learned his lesson about forcing Till to go cold turkey on his less than stellar diet. Now, he focuses on recreating all Till’s favorite dishes with reasonably healthier substitutes. 

Most of the time the difference is barely noticeable. Even Till has to admit his body has felt much better since Ivan started feeding him. 

It’s incredibly frustrating. How the fuck is Ivan so good at everything? Why is god targeting Till specifically? 

“Is that another song for the band?” Ivan asks after dinner, peering over curiously as Till makes a mess of his floor as usual. 

“Nah, not our style,” Till says absently. “It’s for another idol group that commissions me sometimes. Their third album doesn’t come out until next year, but I wanted to get a head start on finalizing these tracks in case I don’t have time later.” 

“Hm.” Ivan is quiet for so long Till almost forgets he’s there, so it startles him when Ivan speaks again. “You don’t need the payout or royalties from writing new songs anymore. Is there a reason you keep accepting commissions even when your workload is already this heavy?” 

Confused, Till glances up from his sheet music to find Ivan scrutinizing him like he’s some sort of unique specimen under a microscope, the way he always does. 

Till doesn’t know how Ivan doesn’t get bored watching him all the time. Till can’t possibly be that interesting. All he does is draw, write music, and get mad. 

“Why would I say no?” Till grumbles. “S’not like I have anything better to do. This is pretty much all I’m good for.” 

Till doesn’t realize how that sounds until he sees Ivan’s eyes darken, and he quickly backtracks. 

“W-wait, that came out wrong, I just meant—” 

“I know what you meant, Till.” 

What the fuck—is Ivan mad at him? Bristling, Till can feel his shoulders instinctively tighten, as if expecting a slap. 

“What about you?” Till says defensively. “Do you really have all this free time to waste with me when I’m sure you have a million better things to do? Seriously, I wish you’d just ask already. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.” 

Ivan’s brows pinch, and for once he looks genuinely confused. “What do you mean?” 

“All this—y’know, sucking up to me, trying to get close to me. It’s stupid. Just be straightforward. Do you want a record deal? An arranged meeting with my label? I’ll fucking do it. You don’t need to keep coming around here. It pisses me off more than if you just fucking said what you were after.” 

As Till speaks, it becomes harder and harder to look at Ivan, so he drops his gaze back to the floor, knuckles turning white around his pencil, hands trembling. 

There is an excruciatingly long pause. Till can barely breathe, and he can feel how still Ivan has gotten. 

Eventually, Ivan says, voice frighteningly serene, “Is that really why you think I’ve been coming by almost every day?” 

“H-how the hell should I know?!” Till bursts, trembling harder now. “That’s why I’m fucking asking! You always—you always do this, be intentionally vague and then make me feel like an idiot when I can’t read your mind. You know how stupid I am. How the fuck am I supposed to get it when you won’t tell me?” 

Ivan is staring at him like he’s trying to carve out holes through Till’s soul with his eyes alone. “You want me to tell you what I want?” 

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Fucking finally. “If it’s a song though, you’ll have to wait a bit. I’m backed up with requests as it is. A couple weeks, at least.” Wait, there’s that gig next week. “Er, three weeks. Probably.” 

For some reason, that seems to mellow Ivan out a little, his expression dimming as he leans back against where he’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and Till hates it. Makes him feel like he disappointed Ivan somehow. 

“Maybe I just like annoying you,” Ivan says, artificially playful. 

Why this little—

Thankfully for Ivan’s neck, Till’s phone rings, interrupting them. Till shoots Ivan a threatening look like you’re getting off easy this time, fucker as he answers the call. 

He’s immediately blasted with heavy music blaring in the background. He holds the speaker away from his ear with a wince. 

“Yoona, what the hell? Trying to make me deaf?” 

“Whoops, my bad!” There’s a small commotion then a muted slam as Yoona must retreat into a separate room, and the music dims, though it’s still excessive. “Better?” 

“I don’t wanna rip out my eardrums, at least.” 

“Tilly, why aren’t you here? Come play,” she whines. “We’re at Arden’s for his wrap party and you’re the only one who’s still AWOL. I can’t believe you’re missing this!” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Till says, “You know I don’t enjoy shit like that—” 

“We have all your favorites~” Yoona sing-songs. 

Till is not an addict. He doesn’t need drugs, he can say no to them, and he doesn’t crave them every day the way he’s seen many others in the entertainment industry do. If they’re offered to him, he’ll usually accept—because why the fuck not, if they make his head feel like less of a mess—and if he’s in any social situation that requires him to be around a lot of strangers, he prefers to be medicated. It’s a choice. He tells himself this constantly. 

But moments like this make him wonder if he clings to the crutch too hard anyway. 

“I’ll be there in half an hour.” 

Ignoring Ivan, Till abandons his sheet music all over the floor to retreat into his bedroom and get dressed. He throws on tight black jeans and a sweater that’s either three sizes too big or belongs to Jun. A couple rings. One of his thicker chokers to hide the scars on his neck. His hair’s a lost cause, so he just stuffs his wallet into his back pocket, grabs his keys, and heads back out to the living area. 

Ivan is standing by the front door, jacket donned and a terrifying smile plastered on his face. “Going to a party? I’ll come with you.” 

Till snorts. “No offense, but I don’t really think this is your scene.” Ivan’s picture perfect mask may be able to charm anyone, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s secretly more similar to Till, preferring quieter settings or to be alone—when he’s not pursuing Till for some sort of agenda, of course. 

Then Till pauses, mulling it over. There will be a lot of industry people there tonight. Maybe it’ll be good for Ivan to make connections other than him. 

Till ignores the way the idea makes his stomach turn. Ivan’s not his; Till has no right feeling possessive. If he wants Ivan to leave him alone, this is the best way to do it, by introducing him to literally anyone else in his field and having Ivan realize how much easier they’d be to deal with. This is a good thing. 

“Fine,” Till says finally. He tosses his keys at Ivan and shoulders past him on his way out the door. “But you’re driving.” Till plans on getting severely fucked up. 

*

Arden’s mansion is obnoxiously large for the area, packed to the brim with idols, actors, and models alike. They have to park at the bottom of the street and walk up because of how many cars are here.  

Till and Ivan are barely two steps through the front door when Yoona appears and throws her arms around Till with a squeal. 

“Tilly, you made it!” 

“I said I would, didn’t I?” But Till hugs her back, because despite how much he dislikes most people getting in his space, Yoona has always reminded him of a slightly more exuberant, significantly less gullible Mizi. She’s very sweet. 

“And who’s this enormous hunk of a man?” Yoona blinks up at Ivan before something seems to click in her eyes and a wide grin splits her face. “Ooh, you’re that model who was cast in the show Tilly’s filming, right? I-something!” 

Ivan smiles. “That’s right. I’m Ivan. It’s lovely to meet you.” 

“Oh my god, he’s so polite. Tilly, why didn’t you tell me you had hot, polite friends?” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I said I had friends at all,” Till deadpans, making Yoona giggle. 

“Well, you’re not wrong about that! Speaking of which: open wide~” 

Till opens his mouth, and Yoona pops a capsule into it, which he immediately swallows dry, relieved. He’s about to thank her when they’re suddenly shoved apart and Ivan has Till pressed up against the wall by the door, hand gripping tightly at his jaw. 

“Spit it out,” Ivan demands. 

“What the—let go of me!” Till tries, but the words come out garbled. He shoves harshly at Ivan’s chest, but when Ivan doesn’t even budge—who let this man be built like a brick house, Jesus Christ—Till slaps him across the face, which startles Ivan just enough into loosening his hold. 

Till rips away from him in an instant, ducking under his arm and darting in front of Yoona, who’s staring at them in horror. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Till shouts. 

“Me?” Ivan repeats incredulously. “You just took an unidentified pill from a near stranger—” 

“Hey!” Yoona protests. “I’ll have you know Tilly and I go waaay back—” 

Not the best time, Yoona. Till rubs his face in agitation. Noticing they’re starting to attract too much attention, Till grabs Ivan’s hand and drags him down the hall to one of the smaller game rooms in the back, relatively empty of partygoers. Yoona trails behind with a huff. 

“Look,” Till says. “I know you heard me on the phone earlier. I came here for drugs, and Yoona is providing me with them. Don’t act like a dick if you want to stay here. You know what this is.” 

Ivan’s entire face is tense with displeasure. It’s a scary thing when Till can read him this easily. “You didn’t even ask her what it was.” 

“And I don’t care,” Till says. “I won’t ask anyone else either. That’s how this works. I have enough surface level trust with the people I accept pills from that they won’t give me anything too fucked up, and if I react badly, there’s a private physician on call to make sure I can safely throw it up. I’ll be fine.” 

Despite the casual way Till is discussing this, he can’t help the burn of shame that crawls up his chest at the way Ivan is looking at him right now. Like he doesn’t recognize Till at all. 

Ivan isn’t stupid. They may run in different circles now, but Ivan must know the kind of shit Till gets into. The drugs, the parties, the sex. The rumors are endless, and Ivan keeps a scary amount of tabs on Till as it is. 

Guess it’s just different seeing it in person. Till shouldn’t have let Ivan come here, after all. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I only gave Tilly some modified GHB,” Yoona offers unhelpfully. “Everyone knows he doesn’t like psychedelics or dissociative anesthetics. Tilly prefers things that keep him either floaty or happy.” 

Over the course of their conversation, Ivan has managed to wrangle his expression back into that carefully easy mask he usually wears, but Yoona’s words still make his eye twitch. “And how much does it cost to be a regular like this?” 

“Oh, Tilly doesn’t have to pay with cash,” Yoona laughs. “He just writes songs for my idol group and has sex with my brother sometimes. It’s a beneficial arrangement for all of us.” 

A brief flash of confusion flickers across Ivan’s face. “Jun?” 

As if Ivan didn’t already do extensive criminal, credit, and background checks on every man Till has ever not-dated. He has to know Jun doesn’t have siblings. 

“Not Jun,” Till says. “He doesn’t like it when I come to these kinds of parties either. And I haven’t slept with Yoona’s brother in months.” Till only pays in music these days. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to clarify that, but he does. 

Yoona perks up. “Jun’s the gorgeous tattoo artist you’ve been seeing lately, right? Ooh, do tell! I can’t believe it’s been so long since we’ve had girl talk! Is he—” 

“Yoona,” Ivan says in that pleasant tone that’s so unnerving because it doesn’t match his eyes at all, “would you give us a moment alone please?” 

Startled and wide-eyed, Yoona seems frozen with fear, even though Ivan is no longer looking at her. Still, she shoots Till a questioning look, which he answers with a nod. Only then does she relax and step back. 

“Sure, I’ll catch you later then! Don’t make too much of a mess in here, okay? The party’s just getting started~” 

And then she’s gone, leaving the two of them staring at each other with only a few disinterested strangers mingling around the edges. For all intents and purposes, they might as well be the only people on earth. 

“What?” Till says finally. He should start feeling the effects of the GHB crawl through his system soon, but instead of euphoric, he feels drained by Ivan’s obvious disapproval and the direction of this conversation. 

This is exactly why he mostly avoids Mizi, Sua, and the gang outside of band shit and the occasional group get-together. He’s a fucking train wreck, and he knows they would judge him, too. 

“Till, is this really what you want?” 

It’s fairly mild for the confrontation Till was expecting, but it still catches him off guard. Still leaves him unknowing how to react. 

“Yes,” Till lies. Can it be a want if it’s the only thing he knows? 

Ivan’s eyes seem to search Till’s face, dark and unreadable, especially in the dim lighting of the game room. Whatever he sees makes something flat settle over his expression, and his shoulders seem both stiff and slumped, as if resigned. “Alright then.” 

And that’s that. 

*

Despite Ivan’s over-the-top reaction to Till taking drugs, he is surprisingly passive through the rest of the party, even if he does take to hovering over Till like an overprotective shadow. 

Till does better in crowds on molly, but the GHB definitely helps with his nerves. Makes him less likely to wanna punch each person who greets him or tries to strike up a conversation. 

Arden’s a little different though. 

“Tilly, you made it!” 

Ivan raises a brow. “Does everyone here call you Tilly?” 

Till scowls. “They just do it to annoy me.” 

“No, we do it because you’re cute,” Arden corrects, “and you’re cutest when you happen to be annoyed with us. Being flustered and red-faced suits you. Don’t you agree, Mr. Model?” Arden smiles sweetly at Ivan, and Ivan smiles just as sweetly back. 

It’s kind of terrifying. Till wishes they’d just punch each other. Maybe then the air would feel less likely to burst into explosive flames. 

“Definitely,” Ivan croons. “Though I get to see Till be that cute without having to drug him first. You probably can’t relate, huh?” 

Oh my god. “I-Ivan!” 

Throwing his head back, Arden laughs so loudly that several people around them shoot curious looks in their direction, though they mostly stay put. Since Arden’s the idol hosting the party tonight, they know to wait their turn. Arden’s a networking genius. He’ll get to them eventually. “Ah, so you’re the one gunning for Jun’s position as Tilly’s boyfriend? Gotta say, I kind of approve. Jun’s a little too nice for my taste. I’m rooting for you.” 

“Wh—Jun is not my boyfriend!” 

Arden gives Till a pitying look. “Still? Poor thing. Give him my condolences. He’s always welcome to party with us to feel better—y’know, if he gets over his hatred of how terrible we are for his cute non-boyfriend’s health.” 

“I mostly agree with Jun this time, I’m afraid,” Ivan says, fake-apologetically. 

“Ah, can’t say I blame you,” Arden sighs. “This scene isn’t for the purehearted.” He leans down to kiss Till’s cheek then grins when Ivan seems to press harder against Till’s back, becoming an even clingier shadow. “I’ll leave you guys to it. Try to have fun anyway, yeah?” 

“You’re such a dick,” Till says once Arden’s gone, shoving at Ivan’s shoulder. 

Ivan only smiles sharply, showing off his snaggletooth. “Seems I fit right in then, doesn’t it?” 

They end up settled in one of the other small game rooms, away from the main bustle of the party—away from the blaring music, debauchery, and drugs—just quiet observers in the corner as a small group badly takes turns playing drunken Mario Kart. 

There’s only one recliner left, so Till just shoves Ivan onto it and then climbs onto his lap, not seeing anything wrong with it as he sits half on the armrest with his legs splayed diagonally over Ivan’s thighs. Till curls in close, snuggling against Ivan’s broad shoulder, reveling in the warmth. 

Till might be higher than he thought. 

“Have you ever played before?” Till asks, eyes half-lidded as he absently watches another racer veer his car off Rainbow Road. 

No answer. Ivan is strangely stiff beneath him, almost like he’s holding his breath. Till frowns. 

“Hey, you good?” 

When Till turns to look up at him, their faces are only inches apart. This close, the dark red hue within Ivan’s eyes are even more prominent than usual, almost glowing in the dim lighting of the TV. 

Hypnotized, Till raises a hand to brush his thumb across Ivan’s cheek, captivated by the way Ivan’s pupils seem to grow even more. Till can’t even pinpoint where they end and his irises begin. If Till didn’t know any better, he’d think Ivan was the one who’s high, not him. 

“Your eyes are insane,” Till breathes, his gaze flicking slowly between both of them, as if unable to focus on just one. 

And then they’re gone, Ivan closing his eyelids as he takes a deep, shaky breath, his entire body tense. 

Till leans back, blinking. “Sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?” He thinks he should probably feel embarrassed, but he doesn’t know why. Yoona’s drugs are potent as fuck. 

Ivan exhales a low, almost hysterical laugh. “You really have no idea, do you?” 

“No idea what?” 

This time, Ivan is the one who cups Till’s face, his hand twice as large and twice as gentle. He seems a little hesitant about it at first, but relaxes when he realizes Till isn’t pulling away. He brushes his thumb across Till’s cheek, mirroring what Till had just done to him, and his hand seems to tremble when Till only leans into his touch, almost nuzzling at his palm. 

Till doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ivan look this shaky. Ivan’s daily mask may be infuriatingly fake, but it’s always steady. Calm. This is a side of him completely unfamiliar to him. 

Till must be out of his mind. He wants to see more. 

Ivan must sense some sort of change in Till’s expression, because his eyes grow hungry, ravenous, filled with so much intensity it almost feels primal, more animal than human. His grip slides down to thread through the short hairs brushing at the back of Till’s neck, his hand large enough that his thumb curls around Till’s throat, resting against his thrumming pulse. Till’s breath catches, and Ivan leans in further to press his forehead against Till’s, fully trembling. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. 

“Till—” 

“Whoopsies!” a girl giggles from behind them. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” 

Ivan’s growl is so sharp and uncharacteristic that Till actually jerks back from him a little, surprised. His mind is too heavy; he feels sluggish and strange. Delayed, Till glances back to see Yoona standing there, a cheeky grin on her face and a plastic cup in her hand. 

“No, you’re fine,” Till says, slow and confused. “Something wrong?” 

“Just wanted to make sure you two were doing okay,” Yoona says innocently. “And to top you up a little, of course! Here you go, Tilly! Have fun~” 

She hands him the drink with the air of a dainty fairy godmother, winks, then disappears back deeper into the house, just as fast as she appeared. 

“Oh, sweet.” Till lifts the cup to his lips to take a sip, but Ivan’s quick grip around his wrist stops him. 

“You’re going to drink it, just like that? What if it’s spiked?” 

“Oh, it definitely is,” Till snorts. “That’s kind of the point, y’know?” 

Ivan’s jaw is clenched so tight Till can see a muscle jump along the side. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one night?” 

Bad move. Eyes narrowing defiantly, Till glares and takes several large gulps anyway, almost like a “Ha! Screw you, I drink what I want, bitch.” He feels pettily vindicated when Ivan’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t try to confiscate Till’s drink again. Smart man. “Do you seriously think Yoona of all people would do anything that would harm me? I write most of her music. I’m pretty sure she prefers me alive.” 

“She could be trying to get rid of the competition,” Ivan points out. 

“Maybe if I was an idol like her and actually lived in the spotlight, but I’m not, and I don’t. Everyone knows I’m barely active these days. I just play guitar in a tiny indie band, write crappy music, and barely sing. I’m not a threat.” 

Ivan is quiet. In the background, Till can hear the loud hum of the party washing in and out like waves, prominent yet somehow distant. Soothing. “Do you ever miss performing like you used to?” 

“No.” Yes. Till doesn’t know. While there may be aspects of singing on stage that he misses, it’s overshadowed by the way Urak used to hurt him whenever he did something wrong. Till doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to erase that. 

Ivan looks a little sad, like he can see right through him. It only makes Till angry. 

What right does Ivan have pitying him when they’re not even friends? Ivan doesn’t have to be here. He doesn’t have to waste his time sucking up to Till. Till has done everything he could these past few years to keep Ivan away from his shitty, messed-up life, and Ivan ignored all his warnings and bullied his way into it anyway. If he feels bad now, it’s his own damn fault. He did this. Not Till. 

“Till?” Ivan says, alarmed, and it’s only then Till realizes he’s shoved himself off Ivan’s lap, stumbling enough that his drink sloshes over the edges a little, dripping sticky liquid onto his fingers. “Hey, let me—” 

“Don’t touch me,” Till snaps, smacking his arm away. “Jesus, I’m not some helpless little pet that needs you to watch my every move. I’m fine. I brought you to this party so you could mingle and meet other people who can help you out with your music career, so—go. Do that. I don’t need you to babysit me.” 

Ivan’s eyes flash. “I am not leaving you alone like this.” 

“Lucky for you, he won’t be alone.” A firm arm wraps around Till’s waist, and Till startles a little before realizing it’s just Arden, having appeared out of nowhere. Behind him, Yoona grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet like an excited schoolgirl. Till absently wonders what she’s so happy about. “We’ll take care of him. Won’t we, Tilly?” 

Normally, Till would shove Arden away. Tell him to suck it. Be rude and ungrateful and mean, the way he always is, the way he hates himself for, the way he can’t help but be, no matter how hard he tries.  

So bitter and so selfish, Urak used to sneer. And you wonder why no one could ever love you. 

But then Till looks back at Ivan, and sees the expression on Ivan’s face, and—

“Yeah,” Till hears himself say. “I’ll be fine. Go have fun or go home. I don’t need you anymore.”  

Till doesn’t recognize the look in Ivan’s eyes, but before he can process it, Arden is leading him away, throwing a teasing remark over his shoulder as Yoona laughs, and— 

Oh, well. Till’s heart already feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder. Might as well bludgeon it even more.

Till wakes up in one of Arden’s guest bedrooms, sticky, sore, head pounding, and feeling like someone should strap him down in hell and burn him alive for everything he’s done. It’s nothing he hasn’t experienced before, but it’s been a while. He hasn’t really fallen off this badly since Sangwoo. Since Jun. 

He kind of wants to die. 

Instead, he quietly slips out from under the strong arm draped over his waist. Till doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t recognize the guy on the other side of the bed either. 

Jesus. His mind’s a little fuzzy on the details, but he’ll be lucky if these are the only two he slept with last night. He was in serious self-destruct mode after parting with Ivan. Not that it takes much, for him. 

Till can’t find his pants, so he borrows one of the spares from the guest dresser. Arden won’t mind. Till is just lucky he’s still wearing his sweater and binder. Even high out of his mind, he was insecure enough to keep them on. 

Downstairs is kind of a disaster zone. Plastic cups strewn about, drunken strangers passed out haphazardly on whatever furniture or floor space they deem comfortable enough. 

Arden is sitting on a stool at his kitchen island, casually sipping a cup of coffee. He looks like that one intact vase in a destroyed shed after a windstorm, completely untouched by chaos. Skin perfect and not a hair out of place. 

“Fuck you,” Till grumbles. “How the hell do you always look like that after a party when the rest of us could blend in with the undead?” 

Arden grins. “It’s a gift.” He tugs Till in for a kiss. Till tries to shove him off, but Arden tightens his grip on the back of Till’s neck like a warning, so Till just lets him take whatever he wants until he’s satisfied. 

It’s quick though, and when he lets Till pull away, he’s beaming. 

“You were so cute last night. We missed you at our parties. Don’t ever stay away for that long again, okay?” 

Till’s stomach twists. He wants to tell Arden to fuck off, but it isn’t Arden he hates. It isn’t Arden he’s disgusted with. “Y-yeah, whatever.” 

“Did you sleep okay?” 

Does it count as sleep if you black out and don’t remember? Till shrugs. Then hesitates. “Hey, uh. You know the friend I brought with me?” 

“Tall, dark, and insanely overprotective?” 

Till cringes. “That’s him. Do you happen to know when he left?” 

Arden looks amused. “He didn’t join in, if that’s what you’re wondering. We even offered to share you so he’d stay and have fun. Guess he just wasn’t interested.” 

Well, why doesn’t he just stab Till in the gut. “W-w-why the fuck would he want something like that?” Till stammers. Damn it! After all these years and he still can’t control his reactions when being upset like this. “I was just asking when he took my car, jerk!” 

Arden tips his head and lets out a loud laugh. There’s a muffled shout of “God, shut up!” from the living room. One of the passed out guests waking up to this delightful conversation, probably. “Tilly, you were the sweetest thing yesterday. It was his loss. Truly.” 

Ivan probably doesn’t feel that way. In fact, Till will be lucky if Ivan looks at him ever again. 

Arden pulls Till in for another kiss. He doesn’t have to grip Till’s neck this time. “C’mon, I have a driver waiting out front. He’ll take you home.” 

*

At Till’s apartment, his car is in his parking spot. His keys are left on his kitchen counter. No note. Not that Till expected there to be. 

Till feels sick, so he spends the morning hugging his toilet. He stares emptily at the wall. He wonders, not for the first time, how living is supposed to be worth it. 

Later, he drinks some coffee. He blasts music on his headphones. He draws until his fingers cramp and bleed. Draws some more. 

The next day, he’s on the call sheet for filming. He takes a shower. Dresses. Replies to Jun’s increasingly concerned text messages. Forces himself out the door. 

And he still breathes. 

Till may be weak and pathetic and filled with more self-hatred than should be possible to fit in one human being, but he still breathes.

Ivan doesn’t break into his apartment to cook for him anymore. 

Till doesn’t blame him. He still doesn’t know when Ivan left the party, but whatever he saw couldn’t have been pretty. Till’s a mess when he’s like that. 

Till can't stand the sight of the untouched pots and pans Ivan bought for his kitchen. The spices he never uses. The dishes he used to set for two. 

So he spends more time at Jun’s place. Jun seemed tense after Till told him he went to Arden’s party, but he never judged him for it. He just asked if Till was okay. Wanted to make sure they didn’t hurt him too badly. Till was so relieved he just climbed onto Jun’s lap and showed his appreciation in the best way he knows how. 

Jun’s the only person in the world who knows how awful Till is and isn’t disgusted with him. 

Till clings to that desperately. He can’t even count on himself. 

*

“Good morning!” Ivan says when Till arrives on set, smiling fake and bright, the way he always does. 

“Morning,” Till mumbles, keeping his head down like he’s trying not to look directly at the sun, the way he always does. 

This is usually the extent of their interactions on set these days outside of scenes they have to film together, so Till is surprised when Ivan holds out a coffee cup and a paper bag that smells of fried eggs and melted cheese. 

Till looks around the hallway. Looks back at Ivan. 

“For… me?” Till says, confused. 

Something in Ivan’s face flickers, but his terrible smile stays intact. “Yep! I was already out and figured I’d get something for you, too. It’s been a while since you’ve eaten, hasn’t it?” 

“Huh? No, I ate…” It takes Till a moment. He thinks he remembers Jun ordering some food the night before and trying to entice Till into eating, but Till was so wrapped up in a song he was writing that he completely forgot. 

Jun seemed upset, but he didn’t push. Jun never pushes. It’s one of the reasons they get along so well. 

Ivan, on the other hand… 

Ivan’s expression grows increasingly darker the longer it takes for Till to answer, and Till tenses defensively, curling his hands by his chest. 

“S-shut up, I’m not a kid! I can feed myself just fine!” 

For some reason, Till’s stupid, childish outburst makes something like relief flash across Ivan’s face, as if he’s so happy just to see Till fighting back, but it’s gone quickly, replaced by a slightly more genuine smile. 

“Of course you can,” Ivan says smoothly. “You’re not a terrible person, Till. You wouldn’t want to make the stylists in the costume department have to complain more about how much tailoring your outfits need because you keep losing weight, right? And you definitely wouldn’t want to cause the editing team stress because of how differently your face looks in certain scenes depending when we shoot them, would you?” 

Damn it all. Guilt stabs at Till’s chest. Why does Till keep being a nuisance for every single person in his life?  

Grudgingly, Till accepts the coffee and breakfast sandwich. “F-fine, whatever,” he grumbles. “Don’t be annoying about it.” 

Ivan beams. 

From then on, Ivan always brings him breakfast on set. It’s not cooking him homemade meals or spending too much time just relaxing in each other’s presence as Till scribbles chaotic music and Ivan reads overly pretentious novels, but it’s something. Better than the near radio silence Till got after Ivan finally witnessed him being a total whore in person, at least. 

Then they finish filming. They’re no longer going to have an excuse to see each other every day. 

But first there’s the wrap-up party. 

*

“No way!” Mina gasps. “You have to be exaggerating!” 

The main cast and crew of their television show are gathered in a private room at a karaoke bar for their celebratory “this is the end of an era and we’re never gonna see each other again sob sob (until the press tour)” party. Because they wanted to be sentimental and cheesy or something. Till refuses to admit he thinks it’s cute. 

Anyway, Till mostly came because even he can’t be a dick and miss something this significant. 

Unfortunately, they’ve barely been here an hour and Ivan seems dead set on embarrassing him enough to regret it. 

“’Fraid not,” Ivan says, with his most winning (annoying) smile. “It’s the truth. Till can play almost any instrument.” 

“Not any,” Till denies instantly. “Since I used to sing a lot more, I never really learned to play brass or woodwind instruments.” And honestly, Till prefers it that way. All the spit kind of turns him off a little. Yes, a hypocritical statement from a filthy super slut, but still. He stands by it. 

“Didn’t you play a saxophone in that one NPR interview a few years back?” Jack asks. “The one where they tried to surprise you and were excited when you proved them wrong? I could’ve sworn you did an amazing job.” When everyone stares at him, Jack realizes what he just said and immediately turns red. “N-not that I’m a superfan or anything! I swear this is a totally normal thing to know about someone else!” 

“Oh, so you’re not a fan of Till’s music?” one of the other girls teases. 

Jack’s eyes bug out. “I-I didn’t say that either!” 

“So which is it, Jack? Are you a fan or aren’t you?” 

“Are you pretending you don’t come to set on days whenever Till is performing even when you’re not even on the call sheet?” 

“Poor Till, getting stuck with such a tsundere for a follower…” 

“What kind of coward can’t even compliment his idol to his face—” 

“G-guys, please!” Jack wails. 

Till can’t help but flush a little, embarrassed but strangely flattered. He’s much less of a big deal here in Korea than he’d been in America during his bigshot teen rock star phase, so this kind of earnest fan behavior is rare. And cute. 

As if reading his mind, Ivan instantly presses against Till’s back from where he claimed the seat next to him, like a threatening shadow. Jack blanches. The others burst out laughing. 

Till smacks Ivan over the head with the drink menu. “Oi, stop that! What are you even doing?” 

Ivan instantly turns off his aura and smiles. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Anyway,” Till says loudly. “Just because I can sort of finesse some brass instruments by ear doesn’t mean I consider myself able to play them. That’s like… only knowing a few key phrases in another language and claiming you’re fluent. It’s a totally different thing.” 

“But if we were to hand you an unfamiliar instrument right now,” Mina says, “and gave you an hour to play around with it, learn its kinks, then perform a song of our choosing, you’d be able to do it?” 

Till scowls. “Anyone can learn to play a new instrument with a little practice.” 

“Um, no, sunbae,” Eri says. “That is not something most people can do.” Eri’s one of the youngest members of the cast, and she always looks up at Till and Ivan with perpetually wide, star-struck eyes. It makes Till want to pat her on the head and feed her strawberry candies. He feels a little betrayed now. 

Ivan grins. “See? Musical genius.” 

“I fucking hate you,” Till snaps, hitting Ivan’s shoulder. Ivan preens like Till just promised him the world. 

Mina’s face lights up. “Speaking of,” she begins, leaning forward excitedly, only for two of the other girls to immediately scramble to clasp a hand over her mouth, looking panicked. 

“Don’t listen to her,” Eri rushes to say. “I’m so sorry, she’s just super drunk right now and—” 

“Hey, it’s fine.” Till frowns. “What is it?” 

Taking that as permission, Mina smacks Eri’s hand away from her face and blurts, “Are you two dating?!” 

Till is lucky he hadn’t been drinking anything at that moment because he would’ve spit it all over the table. “What?”  

“Are you two dating,” Mina repeats, like Till genuinely didn’t hear her and doesn’t look like she punched him in the face unprovoked. 

“Wh—of course not!” Till blurts. “Th-that’s—why would you even think that?” 

“Well, I mean, you are playing the two leading characters in our show,” one of the others points out. “Your chemistry is off the charts. The BL shippers are gonna go crazy.” 

“Plus, you’re like, always together.” 

“Practically glued to each other’s sides.” 

“And Ivan glares at anyone who talks to you who isn’t him.” 

“Even the director!” 

“I once saw Ivan threaten one of the costume department assistants for staring a little too long when Till was changing.” 

“Poor guy was literally just trying to get Till’s measurements.” 

“And you always drive home together, too—” 

“Well, technically not anymore,” another adds. 

“Oh god, right, we were so worried you two broke up or had a fight when you didn’t speak for a while!” 

“It was the most stressed I’ve ever been in my life.” 

Till stares at them, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, growing increasingly more horrified with each word out of their collective mouths. Is this really how the entire cast saw them? How the hell hadn’t he known? 

Then he glances over at Ivan, who looks more darkly amused by Till’s reaction than anything else. In fact, he doesn’t even seem surprised. 

“Did you know this was going on?” Till demands. 

“Not everyone is as oblivious to the people around them as you are,” Ivan says pleasantly. “It was obvious what they were always gossiping about. Anyone paying the slightest bit of attention could’ve figured that out.” 

Till kind of wants to kill him. Or die. Either one. 

“Well, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, guys,” Till says, “but Ivan and I are not dating and we never will.” 

Too many eyes look at him imploringly, like he single-handedly ripped all their hearts out. “Why not?” 

Isn’t it obvious? “Because Ivan is a sadist who just likes to watch me get mad, and I’ll never date anyone, let alone someone I—” Till cuts himself off before he can finish. So embarrassing. “Just—never gonna happen.” 

To Till’s surprise, everyone seems to give Ivan pitying looks, resigned. A few of them even reach over to pat Ivan’s shoulder as if consoling him. A few others shoot Till betrayed looks, like this is all his fault. 

“I’m sorry, Ivan sunbae,” Eri says sadly. 

“Don’t give in!” Mina begs. 

“The stupidity is part of his charm!” 

“He can’t stay this oblivious forever!” 

Till blinks when he realizes even more of them have turned their glares on him, completely baffled. “Wait, how am I the bad guy here?!” 

*

Later, Ivan walks Till home, because of course he does. 

“I’m not even that drunk this time,” Till complains, stumbling a little. 

Ivan just smiles and tightens his grip around Till’s waist. “I know. Do you want me to carry you?” 

“Don’t you dare!” 

Ivan ends up carrying him anyway, at least down that last stretch of hallway leading from the elevator to Till’s apartment. Till complains because he’s an ungrateful piece of shit, but he also clings and nuzzles his face against Ivan’s neck, then yelps when Ivan seems to stumble, almost dropping him. 

“Fucker, if I’m too heavy for you—” 

“You weigh next to nothing,” Ivan says, smiling tightly. “That’s not why I faltered.” 

“Then what?” 

Ivan doesn’t answer. Despite what others seem to think of him, he can be a petty brat too, when he wants to be. 

He doesn’t put Till down until they’re in his bedroom, laying Till on the mattress with surprising care. Till half-expected Ivan to just dump him there. He certainly would’ve deserved it. 

Ivan brushes Till’s hair back from his face. Till’s not sure if he’s checking his temperature or just trying to gauge Till’s drunkenness from the way he searches Till’s eyes. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” 

Till scowls. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not a dog.”

“No,” Ivan agrees. “If anything, you’re more like a cat. Needy like one, too.” 

“What the—screw you!” Till grabs one of his pillows and chucks it at him, but Ivan just ducks out of the room, laughing. The pillow falls harmlessly to the ground with a pathetic thwump. 

Till doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he’s startled awake when Ivan returns, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he sits on the edge. 

“Here.” 

Till moves like a snail to sit back up, blinking tiredly. He takes the glass of water from Ivan. Takes a sip. Takes a few more when Ivan’s gaze increases in intensity, practically radiating his disapproval when Till tries to hand it back. 

“Okay, enough,” Till grumbles, finally shoving the cup back at Ivan. Ivan seems satisfied though. He sets the near-empty glass on the bedside table and lifts a hand to brush against Till’s cheek, dark eyes flitting down the length of him. 

His brows crease. “Do you normally sleep in your binder?” 

Till hides a wince. Or tries to. “No,” he lies. “D-don’t look at me like that! It’s not like I try to.” Till just has a bad habit of only falling asleep when his body finally shuts down while he’s in the middle of something. 

It’s the curse of never going to bed unless he’s fucked out or dead tired. There is nothing more annoying than tossing and turning all night because he can’t sleep. Till avoids that by just never climbing under the covers unless he’s absolutely sure he’ll conk out the second his head hits the pillow. His time is better wasted elsewhere. 

“It’s a miracle you’ve managed to live up to this point,” Ivan mutters. “Here. If you’re too tired to undress now, I’ll help you.” 

Till recoils. “H-hands off! As if I’m letting you get a free show. Perv.” 

“Oh? But you seemed perfectly happy to let everyone at Arden’s party see you naked,” Ivan coos, cruel as ever, and Till flinches. 

It’s been weeks since that party, and they still haven’t talked about it. Till was content to pretend it never happened. Guess that was asking for too much.  

Till must look more like a wounded animal than usual because Ivan’s face actually pinches like he feels remorse—ha!—and he runs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” 

Till forces an incredulous laugh. “You, apologizing to me? Someone alert the media.” 

Surprisingly, Ivan doesn’t take the bait to insult him back, like he’d be justified to. “Are you worried I’ll throw a fit if I see Jun’s ink on you?” 

Kind of. But that’s not the biggest issue. 

Jun’s tattoo is gorgeous. It crawls up Till’s left side from mid-thigh to his lower ribs, a stunning myriad of flowers they designed together. Till actually only went to Jun with a distant idea and a messy collection of sketches he couldn’t piece together himself if he tried, but Jun took them and bloomed. Worked magic, invented miracles. With his expert hands, Till’s stupid dream was expanded into something unrecognizable. 

(It took months after the tattoo was finished for them to finally sleep together, but Till was ready to climb onto Jun’s lap from that first day. He was the first person to ever make Till feel like he could be beautiful.) 

But while Jun’s inkwork manages to blend the appearance of scars until they’re borderline unnoticeable, it doesn’t cover the texture. The raised skin, the jagged lines. 

The gruesome brand Urak angrily burned into his hip the same night he was murdered. 

Till knows Ivan must have a distant idea of his scars, thanks to unflattering rumors and the half-naked picture of his back Sangwoo spread all over the internet. Till also knows Ivan is aware he only met Jun because he commissioned a piece to cover some of those scars up. 

But like everything else, it’s different in person. Different up close. 

Ivan already proved he was disgusted by Till’s whorish, drug-addled behavior at Arden’s party. Till doesn’t know if he’ll survive seeing Ivan react negatively to his skin, too. 

The longer the silence stretches, the more Ivan’s frown deepens, like he can guess what Till is thinking but can’t refute them if Till doesn’t speak them out loud. 

So of course Ivan defaults to what he does best: annoying Till into reacting. “Aw, is the tattoo that ugly? Are you embarrassed of it? It’s fine; I won’t judge. I always suspected Jun must be incompetent anyway since he’s always wasting so much time lazing around with you.” 

And Till takes the bait, every time. “Fuck you! You don’t know anything about him!” 

“I probably know more than you,” Ivan croons. “Do you two even know how to hold a conversation with each other or do you just spend all your time pretending like he’s not using you for sex?” 

Till tackles Ivan off the bed before he realizes what he’s doing. He manages to get one good punch in before Ivan flips them over, pinning Till to the ground, with Till thrashing like an animal. 

“Shut up!” Till snarls. “Shut the fuck up! You have no idea what he’s done for me—” 

“I know he’s a fucking coward,” Ivan sneers. “If he actually cared, he’d take care of you. Make sure you eat regular meals, take breaks instead of working until your hands bleed, and don’t bruise your fucking ribs every night wearing a badly fitted binder to sleep.” 

Till sucks in a sharp breath—or as sharp as he can with the pressure on his lungs. “T-that’s… My own bad habits are not Jun’s fault—” 

“Maybe so, but he should at least try. Make an effort. Say something. Anything. He could. You spend all your free time together. It’d be easy, for him. And… you like him, right?” Ivan’s words grow tight here, almost twisted, with something Till can’t comprehend. “I can see it in the way you talk about him. The way you defend him. The way you go to him for comfort and want his company when you’re sad.” 

Till swallows. He can’t deny it. He cares about Jun more than he should. It may not be love, not the way he loves Ivan, but it’s enough for Till to know he’s undeserving. 

Ivan takes Till’s silence as an affirmation. His grip tightens slightly on Till’s wrists before quickly loosening as he exhales a shredded laugh. “I thought so. You have feelings for him. You’d listen to him. And yet he still holds his tongue and lets you destroy yourself with your own self-hatred, all because he’s so scared he’ll lose you the moment he grows a spine.” 

“You’re—not being fair,” Till whispers. 

“No,” Ivan says, quieter now, “what isn’t fair is that Jun gets to seem like a good, understanding person in your eyes because he’s too desperate to keep you to speak up, and I get to be the selfish, overbearing asshole for always fighting so hard to help. Tell me how that makes sense to you, Till. Really, I want to know. Because I’ve been killing myself trying to find the line of how much I’m allowed to love you before you consider it hate, and every time I push you too far, you end up in the arms of someone else.” 

Till frowns, a little too distracted to process the full brunt of those words. “Wait, who else have I run away to?” Then it hits him. “Are you talking about Arden’s party?” 

Ivan’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t have to nod. 

“Hold up, now I’m confused.” Till looks between Ivan’s eyes, desperately trying to read them. “Are you—mad at me? For what happened that night?” Ivan was so disgusted with Till after the party that he could barely look him in the eye for weeks, and now he… Now he’s saying he wanted to help? Help with what? Is Till too drunk? What is he missing here? “I don’t get you at all.” 

Ivan laughs, a little hysterically. “Of course you still don’t get it. You’ve always been stupid when it comes to this.” 

The words hurt more than they should. “S-screw you! See, this is why I never—” 

But before Till can finish, he’s cut off by Ivan cupping his face and bringing Till’s lips to his. 

Till gasps, stunned. Ivan uses that as an opening to press deeper; take more. Till doesn’t even know if this can be considered a kiss. It feels more like an explosion, like all the anger, hurt, yearning, and desire have all bubbled up into a bomb that couldn’t be contained for a second longer, and somehow they’ve come to this. 

But it’s Ivan—god, it’s Ivan—so of course Till kisses him back. 

Ivan moans when he realizes Till is reciprocating, and suddenly his hands are everywhere: on Till’s neck, in his hair, over the sharp angles of his shoulders, grabbing relentlessly at his waist. It’s like he’s desperately trying to touch every single part of Till at the same time, and when he can’t manage that, he ends up gripping Till’s thighs and lifting him up enough to carry him to the bed. 

Pinned beneath Ivan’s weight, Till is a mess. Ivan is so big and warm, and when he settles between Till’s thighs, Till’s legs nearly flattened apart from his size, Till just whines. Pathetic, high-pitched, and needy, it’s utterly embarrassing, the worst, but it seems to ignite something in Ivan because he groans into Till’s mouth like he can’t get enough. 

“Till,” he whispers. “Till, you’re gorgeous. Till, I need you. Till, let me touch you, please, I—I need to be in you, Till, I—let me—” 

“Yes!” Till cries, shaking as Ivan rocks against him, hard and enormous. “If you don’t get inside me soon, Ivan, so help me god—” 

Ivan practically tears Till’s jeans off in his haste to yank them down his legs. Till is pretty sure he hears a few seams rip. 

“Hey! Do you have any idea how expensive those—” 

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Ivan promises, tugging off Till’s underwear next. When Till tries to kick him, he easily catches Till’s leg and presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, making Till gasp. Ivan’s eyes go frighteningly black. “I’ll buy you a new everything, anything you want. You should just move in with me. What’s mine is yours. Everything I have belongs to you. Just—” 

“Jesus,” Till says, face burning. “Shut up, shut up, god what is wrong with you, just stick your dick in me already—” 

“I’m just saying,” Ivan breathes, as levels his face with Till’s bare cunt, already glistening with want, “that I’ll give you everything you need. You only have to be mine.” 

Before Till can respond, Ivan’s mouth is on his pussy, and Till screams. 

Ivan eats him out like a man starving, all passion and desperation, like he’ll die if he doesn’t consume every part of Till he can in the next half-breath. There’s a surprising lack of skill in his movements, but it doesn’t even matter because he makes up for it in enthusiasm. He licks and bites and sucks like he can’t get enough, and Till is already half-gone from just being here, with him, head thrown back, thighs trembling, babbling nonsense about yes and please and more, Ivan, oh god, more, more, when Ivan slides two fingers in at once, curling them just right, and Till shatters. 

Till thinks he blacks out a little, because when he comes to, Ivan has crawled up his body, peppering kisses all over his face, fingers still lodged in his cunt. 

“You’re—insane,” Till gasps, shaking. “What—” 

“It was good, right? I made you feel good?” Ivan sounds almost giddy as he kisses along Till’s jaw, licking breathlessly at his face. 

“A-as if you don’t already know!” 

Ivan just kisses Till more, fingers still slithering inside him. The movements are a little awkward from the angle, mostly because Ivan refuses to detach from Till enough to move them properly, but there’s something else, something in his non-answer, that makes Till’s breath hitch. 

“You… do know, right?” Till says haltingly. “You’ve done this before… haven’t you?” 

Ivan tightens his grip on the back of Till’s neck as his other hand stills slightly against Till’s cunt, but he doesn’t respond. 

“Ivan—” 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Ivan says, pulling back just enough so he can stare into Till’s eyes, pupils red-black, “and I’m going to make you feel so good that you’ll forget every other selfish, pathetic, immature, insignificant little worm you’ve ever let touch you in the past. Nothing else matters. You’ll be mine. I’ll get you pregnant if I have to, but you’ll be all mine.” 

Till trembles. He’s pretty sure his face is on fire. “Y-you—you know I’m on the—” 

“I don’t care,” Ivan says, and his grip tightens. He slides his hand out of Till’s cunt to rest possessively against his belly, the way a dog might hover over a bone. “Mine.” 

There must be something seriously wrong with him. Till has known this from the start. “Yours,” Till agrees, barely a whisper. “Ivan, I’m yours.” 

Lucky for him, there’s always been something wrong with Till, too. 

When Ivan kisses him again, Till is just as hungry. They’re a mess, going too hard, too fast, but Till doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything except getting Ivan inside him. He thinks he might die if it doesn’t happen soon. 

Ivan only breaks apart just enough to tug his shirt over his head, revealing exactly the kind of build you’d expect from someone with that face. 

(“What the fuck, what the fuck, how do you look like that, what the fuck—”

In hindsight, it’s probably not a good idea to stroke Ivan’s ego this much, but Till can’t even regret it, not when Ivan laughs and preens and kisses Till, again and again.) 

But when Ivan starts to tug on the bottom of Till’s sweater, Till completely freezes up. 

Surprisingly, Ivan stops instantly. He searches Till’s face. “Do you want to keep it on?” 

Till hesitates. Then shakes his head. “I-it’s fine.” 

This is Ivan. It’s Ivan. Even if Ivan is the person Till wants to hide his hideous body from the most, he’s also the person Till wants to do this with the most, more than anything. He always has. 

Till tugs his sweater off first, already shaking. He has to work a little harder to slide his binder over his head. The material is stiff and tight. 

Till usually has a bit of chronic pain that is exacerbated by his excessive use of a binder—he wants to blame Urak, but he knows his terrible posture when composing probably doesn’t help—so the first few full breaths he takes after being free of the pressure are a little rough. It’ll even out eventually. 

Still, it’s hard to miss the look on Ivan’s face. 

“It’s fine,” Till is quick to say, even if it’s probably a lie. “It doesn’t even hurt.” Okay, definitely a lie. 

Ivan fakes a smile. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to get a better one fitted. My treat.” 

Till forces a scoff. “I probably have more money than you do, rich kid. You can’t bribe me with a shopping spree.” 

Ivan cups his face, achingly gentle. And when he kisses him again, it’s so sweet that Till feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t care,” Ivan says. “I’m going to spend all my time spoiling you anyway. Just try and stop me.” 

Chest feeling full and overwhelmed with so much more than pain, Till crawls up onto Ivan’s lap and kisses him deeper. 

Something has changed between them. While their movements are still hungry, there’s an underlying tenderness that is somehow even more consuming. It’s like they’re trying to fuse together more than just their bodies, more than just their souls. If Ivan wanted to reach into Till’s chest and rip his heart out so he could place it safely next to his, Till would let him. Till would let him do anything. 

“Till,” Ivan moans, sliding his hands down Till’s back, pressing against whip scars and cigarette burns and knife lines. Against the random chunks of flesh torn out from when Urak would use a belt and laugh when the buckle caught at his skin. “Till, god, you’re so perfect, I—fuck, I can’t—” 

Till whimpers into his mouth. Rocks desperately against the bulge at the front of Ivan’s pants. Till is about to reach for the zipper to free Ivan’s cock so he can finally take it deep inside him when Ivan’s hands finally slide around from his back, moving to grip his sides—and Ivan freezes. 

Suddenly, Till is flipped flat on his back and flinching at the abrupt light. Since they’ve mostly been operating in the dark with only the warm hallway light filtering into the room, it feels startling when Ivan unexpectedly reaches over to flip on the bedside lamp, even though it technically isn’t any brighter. Just closer. 

“Ivan, what—” 

“What the hell is this?” 

At first, Till thinks Ivan’s talking about Jun’s tattoo. He wants to groan, “Damn it, I told you so, I knew you’d be mad if you saw his ink on me!”  

But then Ivan drags his fingers along the rough ridges hidden beneath the ink, as if trying to absorb them, and Till realizes it’s not the tattoo he’s glaring at. It’s not the tattoo he’s staring at with horror. 

It’s the brand buried underneath. 

Ashamed, Till tries to recoil and hide it, but Ivan’s firm, almost punishing grip keeps him in place. 

“Ivan, s-stop,” Till says shakily, feeling small. “I—I already told you, I know I’m hideous, you—you don’t have to look. Just…”

“This is what Urak burned into you the night he died?” 

Till’s breath halts. “Wait, how did you…” 

Till’s scars may be plentiful, but he’s never told anyone when he got each of them. That’s one way they get to blend together. Not even Jun knows Till was branded the same day Urak was killed. 

Ivan is starting to shake. The expression on his face is awful. Till’s never seen him like this. Ivan keeps staring at the tatted-over brand like he’s seen a ghost, all pale-faced and horrified, and it makes Till shake too, makes him want to curl up in a ball at the bottom of the ocean and simply cease to be, but he wants to fix this first, fix Ivan, so he reaches out to gently touch Ivan’s shoulder and call his out name— 

Ivan is off the bed so fast it almost gives Till whiplash. He doesn’t even look at Till anymore. It’s like if he does, he’s gonna be sick. 

“I’m sorry,” Ivan says hoarsely. “I have to go. I—sorry. Sorry. I…” 

And then he’s gone. He doesn’t even bother to pick up his shirt. 

It takes a long moment for Till to move again, and only because his hand starts to get sore from where he didn’t realize he still had it held out to reach for Ivan’s shoulder. 

Till lets his hand drop to his lap. Keeps staring at the door. Part of him thinks this must be some sort of joke—that Ivan is just gonna walk back in and laugh that he fooled him, and Till is gonna punch him for pulling something so stupid, so cruel, but he’d forgive him anyway, because Ivan may be a little shit sometimes, but he’d never really try to hurt him. Not like this. 

The moment stretches on. Ivan doesn’t return. 

Till touches his chest. He’s surprised it doesn’t come away bleeding. 

Then he touches his side. He wants to claw the skin off. Till knows it’s terrible, feels terrible, looks terrible, but he always thought—if it could mostly be hidden by ink, then maybe— 

But no. Ivan took one look at it and immediately wanted to leave. And Till can’t even explain himself. Can’t say he doesn’t understand it either. Can’t tell him how scared he’d been that night, scared and trembling and confused, when Urak suddenly came home and started yelling about how it was all Till’s fault, that Till had betrayed him, that if Urak was going down, he was gonna drag Till down with him. 

“If you want to belong to him that badly, then I’ll make sure you don’t forget it,” Urak sneered. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Till cried. 

Urak didn’t care. He wouldn’t listen. He beat Till viciously. Hit him until he couldn’t even sob anymore, he was so weak. Then he pinned Till to the ground and held a burning poker to his skin so he could brand him with a name Till had never even heard of before, let alone conspired with. 

NAVI’S WHORE. 

Written in sloppy, misshapen Korean so Till would never be able to forget. Making sure his body, once again, would never belong to him. 

Eventually, Till ends up lying on his side. His pillow is damp. His body is cold. His heart feels shredded beyond comprehension, like someone took a knife repeatedly to his chest. 

Ah, Till thinks. This is why he never lets himself want anything. 

Being hit with a dozen freight trains would hurt less than this.