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Till has never been a fan of lavish parties. In fact, he hates them with a burning passion and would never go to one if he had any say in the matter. Unfortunately, no one cares what Till likes or wants, and lately he spends most of his nights at decadent parties where aliens with lots of money in their pockets indulge their barely concealed desires.
A heavy hand rests on Till’s shoulder as his segyein pushes him forward to shake the slimy hand of yet another fan, as if they don’t express how much they detest his defiant behavior in the same breath. It has gotten worse after Till’s debut album reached the top of the charts, just as a new season of Alien Stage looms on the horizon.
It seems like everyone wants to get a piece of him while they still can.
On a normal night, Till would have rebelled against the alien’s wishes, but after so many parties and forced pleasantries, he is tired and doesn’t put up much of a fight when he is coerced to sing or when cheap intoxicants, that often make him sick, are shoved down his throat. He always gets the short end of the stick when he behaves well, and it only gets worse when he dares to protest—he has done it before, more times than he can count, and by now he knows that the bitter taste of the viscous, bright green drinks is not the worst thing he has ever tasted.
So, he behaves for the night, gritting his teeth, squeezing the microphone in his palms, and letting the anger simmer inside him up to the point where he can barely contain it.
He sings until his voice is hoarse and he can’t hit the highest notes in his vocal range. His audience doesn’t care if this is the consequence of overworking his voice or the consumption of caustic liquors. Instead, they seem too intoxicated to oppose him leaving the room while the more interesting news of Luka’s arrival at the venue spreads like wildfire.
Till stumbles down the corridor, pretending not to feel the world spinning out of control around him, eventually getting to a lonely balcony where he can finally breathe again.
His hands find the handrail to support his weight, and he is not sure how long he spends clutching it, but as the suffocating sensation in his lungs subsides and his heart rate returns to normal, the anger returns, hot and overwhelming.
For a brief instant, he wonders what it would be like to jump and fall into the endless abyss of space, if only to inconvenience everyone who keeps wronging him, but approaching footsteps stop him before he can delve into that line of thought. Till expects to find someone looking for him to drag him back into the party, but instead he finds Ivan, staring at him with his dark, piercing eyes.
“Fancy meeting you here, Till,” Ivan says.
Ivan is wearing a dark blue suit and looks perfectly composed, not a hair out of place, when he leans against the handrail of the balcony next to Till. In comparison, Till is sure that he must look sweaty and pale, with deep dark circles around his eyes, ready to end it all.
“Don’t you have wealthy patrons to entertain?” Till asks, his voice laced with more venom than he intended, and then he clears his throat, still feeling a slight burn when he speaks.
“I’m sure they’ll manage without me for a while,” Ivan replies, closing the distance between them.
Up close, Till notices that Ivan is not as perfect as he first appears. The lapels of his white shirt are stained with makeup, and there is a mawkish floral smell clinging to him, the kind of fragrance a guy like Ivan would never choose. His pupils are also unnaturally blown wide, the reddish color overwhelming the black, so it’s not hard to guess that he’s also under the influence of some substance.
A moment passes and then another. Ivan takes another step closer to Till, as if he hadn’t already invaded his personal space, until they’re shoulder to shoulder.
“What?” Till asks. “There’s enough space for you to take a step back.”
“But I want to stay close to you.” Ivan’s hand finds Till’s fingers and he smiles with mirth as he always does when he is bothering Till, like it’s the funniest thing ever.
Till knows that Ivan’s smile will only get bigger if he pushes him away, so Till stays still, not giving Ivan the pleasure of doing what he expects and wants. The lack of response doesn’t discourage Ivan and prompts him to grab Till’s hand properly, intertwining their fingers, and even resting his chin on Till’s shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Till hisses, grabbing Ivan’s wrist to stop him. “This isn’t one of your games.”
Ivan seems delighted to finally have gotten a rise out of Till as it is typical of him.
“I’m not playing.” Ivan speaks into Till’s ear and chuckles when Till makes a feeble attempt to push him away.
Till realizes he has once again fallen into Ivan’s trap when Ivan reaches forward and lets his fingers linger on a fading bruise on Till’s cheekbone, a reminder of a fight he got into with a guard a few days ago. They put makeup on him earlier to make him look his best for potential sponsors, but he suspects it’s all smudged now, revealing the purple underneath.
Ivan frowns and Till expects him to press down on the bruise to make Till flinch for the sake of it, but Ivan doesn’t.
“I can treat you better than that.” Ivan buries his fingers in Till’s hair and his face in the junction of Till’s neck and shoulder.
Till stays frozen, feeling Ivan’s breath tickling his skin while his hands clutch Till’s arm with such force that it hurts, an action that doesn’t exactly reflect his words. Ivan moves before Till can pull away from his grip, his nose brushing against Till’s cheek, and when Till meets his eyes, Ivan is way too close, and getting closer as he moves forward.
It’s almost as though Ivan wants to kiss him for some strange reason.
“What are you doing?” Till stumbles and trips over his own feet when he takes a step back, but Ivan’s hold helps him stay on his feet. “I told you to stop playing games!”
“I’m not playing,” Ivan repeats, leaning forward again. “Stay still.”
“Why?”
“I will treat you well.” Ivan’s hands run up Trill’s arms, leaving goose bumps along the way. Ivan’s tone is as serious and emotionless as always, but it makes Till’s heart beat faster and faster.
Once, when Till was a child, he had scraped his arm trying to climb a tree. He pressed his lips together, refusing to cry or show any emotion, but Mizi, ever so kind, saw the blood Till so foolishly tried to hide under his white sleeves, and patiently helped clean up the mess with her soft little hands, while Till felt his heart pounding out of control in his chest.
Since then, no one has touched Till with anything but disgust, but now Ivan’s fingers move tenderly up his neck to his jaw, as if Till might break under Ivan’s hold. If Till didn’t know any better, he would even dare to say that Ivan’s careful caresses are affectionate.
Till is not sure what’s gotten into Ivan, but there is a chance that whatever he took earlier is still in his system, lowering his inhibitions and making him think it’s a good idea to act all lovey-dovey with Till, like he means it.
“You can pretend that the one kissing you is her.” Ivan boldly slides his thumb over Till’s lower lip. “I don’t mind.”
Till must have been given a similar drug, because he swallows and considers the offer against his better judgment.
“You can think of this as practice, if you will,” Ivan continues. “For future kissing endeavors.”
Yes, they’ve definitely given Till something stronger than usual, because for some reason, the idea of kissing Ivan—for his own convenience, of course—doesn’t sound too bad. He doesn’t question why Ivan seems to know that he loves Mizi either.
“Fine,” Till mumbles after a moment and raises his hand to stop Ivan with a hand on his breastbone when he jumps forward with enthusiasm.
“What—”
“If we’re going to do this, you can never bring this up again,” Till says, trying to conceal his nervousness. “Promise me you won’t.”
“You have my word.”
Till stares into Ivan’s eyes before lowering his gaze to his lips and the ridiculous snaggletooth that has become his trademark. Till’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingertips, and he drops his hand before he can think twice.
Ivan crashes their lips together with urgency, like he is afraid that Till will change his mind if he takes a second longer to make a move. The first kiss is not what Till expected, if he ever had any expectations about it. Ivan moves his lips against Till’s slack mouth like he wants to devour him without giving him a chance to catch his breath.
It's over as abruptly as it started. Ivan leans back just enough to look at Till when he licks his lips, and Till is sure it shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and then wonders why he thinks it’s hot at all.
Till doesn’t have time to unpack that before Ivan catches his lips in another kiss. Now that the initial rush has passed, Ivan slows down, cupping Till’s face with gentle but firm hands, and Till stares at Ivan through half-closed eyes—at his perfect crystal skin and long lashes. It’s very annoying how handsome he is.
Till is not sure what he should do with his hands, so he puts them on Ivan’s shoulders.
To push him away in case he tries something funny, he tells himself, but he finds himself digging his nails into Ivan’s jacket, crumpling the fine fabric under his fingers as he tries to imitate the way Ivan moves his mouth.
Ivan told Till that he wouldn’t mind if Till imagined Mizi hugging and kissing him in his place, but Till can’t imagine Mizi kissing him the way Ivan does. It’s hard to do that when Ivan, who is stronger and taller than him, is holding him possessively while planting kisses all over Till’s face.
It would be a lie to say that Till has never fantasized about kissing Mizi, but in his fantasies, Mizi is lovely and demure, and her lips, soft as petals, taste like the candy he has tasted only a few times in his life; not because he particularly likes candy, but because Mizi is so sweet. Ivan’s lips are also ridiculously soft, but he is not shy and his mouth tastes slightly bitter and metallic, something that reminds Till of the drinks he had earlier.
No matter how hard he tries, Till can’t imagine Mizi in Ivan’s place, they are too different, basically polar opposites, and Till is not sure if he is shocked by the discovery.
“Who’s in your mind when I touch you like this?” Ivan asks, like he can read Till’s mind, holding Till closer by the waist. “Me? Mizi? Someone else?”
Till presses his lips into a thin line. There is no way he can tell Ivan that it’s impossible for him to think of someone else, Ivan wouldn’t shut up about it for the rest of their lives.
“Tell me,” Ivan insists, digging his fingers into Till’s skin. “Tell me, Till.”
Till leans forward and impulsively bites Ivan’s lips to shut him up, but if anything, Ivan is enjoying it a little too much, judging by the muffled moan he lets out. Till feels his already warm face getting uncomfortably hot, so he looks to the side to hide his inconvenient emotions from Ivan, but Ivan is having none of it.
“Keep your eyes on me,” Ivan grabs Till’s jaw and makes him look at him again before kissing Till once more.
Ivan coaxes Till’s mouth open to deepen the kiss and make him moan, and for good measure, he bites his lips too, and Till suddenly understands the appeal of it when he fails to hold back a pathetic whimper that spurs Ivan to try his damned best to replicate it.
It’s a searing kiss, followed by quick, tender pecks to extinguish the fire and even their breathing. Ivan meticulously adjusts Till’s collar and for the first time is the one who takes a step back.
Till barely has time to open his mouth to formulate a question before the intimidating figure of Ivan segyein appears on the threshold, personally searching for his precious pet. Till didn’t even hear the approaching sounds.
“See you around, Till,” Ivan says as impassively as ever. Till notices that he has also fixed his own collar and coat at some point, and looks perfectly composed, as if he didn’t have his tongue inside Till’s mouth not long ago.
Till just nods, not expecting the final kiss Ivan plants on his cheek as a farewell before leaving him alone again.
One moment and then two. Till’s knees feel weak, and he has to hold onto the handrail again. It’s a different sensation than before—he doesn’t feel like he’s getting sick from the drugs, but from something else that leaves a more pleasant but just as intoxicating feeling in his stomach.
Maybe he does not hate it as much as he initially thought.