Chapter Text
Raining during a funeral was such a horrible cliche, Till thought.
It wasn't as if there weren't weather forecasts warning him today, but the first shock of rain pouring down was like the heavens opening the floodgates.
How funny. It was raining during their wedding day, too.
Stray droplets dampened Till's hair as he gazed blankly at the austere black of his husband's urn.
There was nobody else in the cold columbarium but him.
"Serves you right, you workaholic," Till finally said hoarsely. He tapped a finger against the urn, smiling none-too-kindly. "All those business trips you took to stay away from me, and guess what takes you out? A plane."
But the man could not respond.
Till found that his wishes became lesser and lesser these past few months. No longer did he wish for his husband safe and sound, nor his constant presence in his study where Till never went. All he wanted was him, alive in some degree, and if even that could not be granted, then at least his husband's body.
The urn, of course, contained nothing but what remained in the crash site. Whether his husband was here or not at all was up to chance.
"Idiot."
The rain was really wailing, beating furious fists into the ground. Till wrapped one cold hand around the urn, then the other hand, shaking minutely. The urn he placed gently upon the marble, steady even as he trembled.
Till stood there, silent, hands pressed stiffly to the urn. "Idiot," he said again. "You couldn't even tell the person you loved that you loved them, huh? I didn't sign the divorce papers you left yet, and you've made me a widower. What do you have to say for yourself?"
There was no eulogy to be said. Till began to excruciatingly peel his hands off the urn, when an arc of light flashed through the sky, bleaching away the shadows of the windows arching over the columbary. And Till, standing far below the gothic architecture, was thrown into blinding, stark relief. The hands on his husband's urn tightened, bringing it closer to himself, as he closed his eyes against the glare.
"Till?"
Disoriented, Till was almost deluded into thinking that his husband called him. He blinked.
"It's raining so hard, be careful to not catch cold."
A hot, nearly scalding, hand was laid on his shoulder. Till shivered and turned—
—to see his deceased husband staring down at him.
Seeing that Till had finally responded, he entreated, "At least change into something warmer. You can't get sick."
Till stared at him in shock. He could still feel the coldness of the urn under his fingertips, hanging by his sides, clenched around nothing. Unconsciously his lips parted to say, "Ivan?"
"Yes?"
These dark, focused eyes on him were as familiar as his own reflection. Till dared not move in fear of breaking the dream, "Ivan?"
"Yes?" Ivan looked at him patiently.
"Ivan."
"Yes?"
Till bit his lip. "Ivan," he repeated nonsensically, trembling still.
Ivan's gaze never wavered. "Yes?"
If Till were to say that he disliked Ivan during nearly a decade of marriage, it would be wrong. They weren't anything close to a sweet, affectionate couple, nor was Till under any illusions of love. It was a business marriage, and they were both quite clear on that part, even tacitly agreeing that lovers outside the marriage were an option, discreetly. Of course, neither of them actually did so, Ivan with his infamous first love least of all.
Habit was a frightening thing. Losing his husband so abruptly felt like cutting off a limb, leaving Till sinking into numbness, unable to untangle himself from the abyss. He refused to go to the reading of the will, refused to look at news, and even the last personal effects left to him were still unopened on their living room table.
Not that he could open them now, anyway.
Till had stood in silence for quite some time, but Ivan still accompanied him indulgently. That was his husband, after all, ever forbearing. There were some times that Till could even delude himself that Ivan loved him, if not for the fact that Ivan was well-known to have a great first love in his heart, an untouchable moonlight that could not be surpassed by even the sun.
Till's eyes darted to and fro, drinking in the sight. Ivan's stately black suit, and his own white suit, could only be attributed to one single event of his life, but he still asked. "Did we get married?"
Ivan's lips flattened. "The vows are said and the papers signed. Even if you are unwilling, it's done."
How could I ever forget? Till nearly said. The rain and these clothes, and those eyes of yours, how could I forget?
It's just that, a few moments ago, I was holding your urn.
Thunder boomed powerfully, as if the storm was roaring above their house.
Till felt sick with joy. Happy, sure, but surreal, as if he had starved for days on end and was now nauseous with satiety. His husband, long snatched away, now within reach.
Ivan watched him, his defiant stare fading into confusion. When Till seemed disinclined to keep talking, he said, "I'll stay in the guest room, please make yourself comfortable here. It was a long day, so rest well." He dipped his head in a bow and made for the door. "I'll leave you be. Please call if you need anything at all."
Till was stood stock-still even when Ivan closed the door behind him with a click.
Thunder boomed once more, accompanied by lightning, and all the lights in the room flickered. Till shivered, but not from cold. Pain lanced through his arm with a hard pinch, and Till thought, hysterically, that this might not be a dream after all.
His hands were empty.
He went to the window and opened the latch. Immediately the rain pelted his face with a bone-deep cold, and he snapped the window shut just as quickly. Now soaked, Till wrapped his hands around his shoulders and began to think something crazy. Something like, had he gone back in time? Was he dead on the columbarium's floor, still holding his husband's urn, and this was all an elaborate afterlife?
It was getting really cold. Till decided to first take a bath, then decide whether this was a delusion or not.
Till rushed down the stairs with haphazardly dried hair. From where he was seated on the dining room table, Ivan looked up, his placid face looking a little dazed as Till approached him rapidly. But this was quickly replaced with a cool expression. "Did you want something?"
"Yeah, just some tea," Till said, his thundering heart quietening in his husband's presence. "Is that okay?"
"Of course, everything in the house is at your disposal."
Till moved around the familiar kitchen with ease. He located the extra ginger citron tea and the kettle, and after filling the latter with water, set it on the stove to boil. While rifling around, he noticed a bowl of hangover soup on the island in the middle of the kitchen, cold and untouched.
Except for the champagne exchange, Till had not touched a drop of liquor during the reception, for all of it was drunk by Ivan in his stead. So, clearly the haejangguk was not for him. And it was untouched, which aligned neatly with Ivan's habit of ignoring his body. Till sighed and warmed up the soup.
The previous time during this day, Till had gone straight to bed. Till sincerely doubted that Ivan had touched the soup during that time, too.
The kettle whistled, and Till made some citron tea. Mug and bowl in hand, he went back to the dining room area to see Ivan hunched over his laptop.
"Here," Till said, placing the bowl near Ivan so that he could reach for it but not enough for it to reach the laptop if spilled.
Ivan looked up, startled, then at the bowl. Till sat down across him and began to sip at his tea, while Ivan stared at the soup.
"I didn't put poison in it," Till said drily. Leaning forward, he took a sip and raised his brows at Ivan. "There, do you feel safer?"
Ivan was biting his lip so hard it was white. Taking pity on him, Till said politely, "you don't have to drink it."
"No! No, no." Shaking himself out of a stupor, Ivan managed a smile. His eyes glistened in the low evening light. "Thank you. You didn't have to."
Till nodded awkwardly. "I just warmed it up. And you don't like citron."
Ivan, who was taking a slow, tentative sip of the soup, looked startled once more. It was perhaps the most emotion Till had ever seen him express consecutively in his whole life, including the previous. "I don't?"
"You don't?" Till blinked in confusion. He himself liked citron a lot, to the point he could finish a whole jar in half a month. So when he once asked if Ivan wanted some, Ivan declined on the basis that he disliked it, and Till could have it all instead.
Ivan looked blank, which was his version of bewilderment. "No, I rather enjoy it."
So why did you say you don't like it?
This was how Ivan was, too, Till reflected, irritated. He often made really weird decisions Till couldn't comprehend.
Case in point, the plane ride. Leaving divorce letters before the plane ride. Leaving him all his assets and liabilities even with a prenup. Dying.
Even if the last one wasn't his fault.
Till took one more sip of the tea and pushed the mug to Ivan. "Here, then."
The soup was already finished. Ivan shook his head. "No, I can't take yours."
"Why, is it disgusting?" Till crossed his arms, a little angry but not knowing why. "We're married now. What's a shared mug to that?"
Ivan's face was still damnably unreadable as he considered Till. Just when Till was going to take back the mug, Ivan's hand shot out and he threw back the tea as if it were a shot of liquor, unflinching even with the scalding liquid.
Till felt incredulous, but only a little bit. On a list of weird Ivan actions, this was basically nothing.
Ivan wiped his lips with the back of his hand as he stared at Till. He nodded once and stood, putting the mug in the bowl and going to the kitchen. Soon after that, the tap was turned on as Ivan presumably washed them.
Till leaned back in the chair and uncrossed his arms.
All right then.
He really was tired and aching all over, and honestly still in disbelief, so he decided to sleep earlier. He poked his head in the kitchen to see Ivan scrubbing furiously at the bowl. "Good night, I'll go to sleep now."
Ivan's back straightened, but he didn't turn to look at him. "Yes, good night. Sweet dreams, Till."
With nothing else to say, Till left, but not before glancing quickly at Ivan's laptop. On it was a ticket to Chicago, and Till only snorted before returning to his room. Workaholics. He almost considered pouring a cup of water on the laptop but stopped himself on the basis that this wasn't the middle-aged Ivan he had lived with for years. This Ivan had no real attachment to him, habitual or otherwise.
Till would make sure that Ivan would live for a long, long time with him, so it probably wasn't the best idea to annoy him so early on.
So Till went to bed, or tried to. Even with a wintry fatigue settled deep in his bones, sleep eluded him. It felt so cold, even with layers and layers of blankets on, it felt like he was soaked to the bone even with the scalding bath he took earlier.
Till, sleepy but wide awake, left the bed and walked down the hall to the guest room, following a familiar path. Some places in his home he could never forget, and some he wished he could. This was perhaps one of the more benign memories.
The guest room's door was somewhat creaky. This was mainly because Ivan liked to know whether the guest was out and about—Ivan himself never voiced this, and this was just Till's assumption. But Till slid it open in the specific way that he knew minimized the most noise.
Ivan slept quietly and unobtrusively. While Till had a bad habit of kicking off bed sheets and moving around, this was tempered when he and Ivan came to sleep in the same bed, mostly because Ivan was somehow a cuddler.
Till stood at the mouth of the door and looked his fill, breathing in quietly. After a while, he went back to his room and crawled back into bed. He did not dream.
First thing in the morning, Till checked his phone. Eight years back, the day after his marriage.
It was permanent. Or if it wasn't, at least he would stay in this time for a while. Till laid back down with a sigh and threw his hand over his eyes.
After a brief, lazy half-drowsy, half-awake nap, he stood up to look outside. In the yard below, Ivan was playing with a large dog. His laughter could be heard from Till's vantage point.
Till squinted, surprised, not remembering any dog from before, especially one that elicited such warm emotions from Ivan, but he went downstairs nevertheless.
A woman in a neat black uniform was setting the table. She beamed upon seeing Till. "Good morning, sir!"
"Yes, good morning," Till said, with a smile. This was, after all, the housekeeper he had known for years. While she had to accompany her daughter giving birth during the funeral, she was always concerned about Till and always insisted on bringing him food during his nightly vigils.
Even when Till had essentially let her go, she still came by every day to clean the house and force Till to go outside. She always told Till archly that while he still kept paying her wages, she would still be helping him out, thank you very much, and no amount of Till telling her he wanted to be left alone would work against her.
"Sir Till, good morning. I am Lucille, and I have been hired previously by Sir Ivan to manage the house." Saying that, Lucille bowed elegantly.
Till bowed as well. "Please call me Till, ma'am."
"If that is what you wish, Till," Lucille said warmly. "Please also call me Lucille if you wish."
"Of course, Lucille. Thank you, too. Have you been working for Ivan for a long time?"
"Only for two years as of today," Lucille said. She went to the kitchen and returned with a few bowls of food. And rice, of course. "He's been very kind, if not the most considerate employer I have met. Oh! And congratulations to your marriage! May you have great happiness."
Till smiled. "Thank you very much. By the way, the hangover soup was your doing, right?"
"Oh, yes. Did Sir Ivan drink it, at least?"
"I made him," Till said with a sigh. "He wouldn't have, originally."
"Oh, that is true," Lucille said, her smile hidden behind a hand. Till shared a commiserating look with her.
"Did you need any help?"
"No, it's all right. I only cooked this much as I wasn't sure how much you wanted to eat. Do you have any allergies or dislikes?"
"Not really," Till said. "I don't eat a whole lot anyway."
"I see, thank you very much." Lucille bowed shallowly. "I will now go to wash the dishes. Sir Ivan is out in the yard if you need him," she added, keenly noticing Till's straying eyes. "I can wash the dishes efficiently, so please feel free to do whatever you wish otherwise."
In other words, don't go in the kitchen. Till grinned, sheepish, remembering the time he had made a cake and forgot to return the eggs in the refrigerator. He wouldn't forget that again this time.
He excused himself and went outside. Ivan, although he had his back to the door, turned around immediately to greet him.
"Good morning to you too," Till glanced curiously at the dog. "Yours?"
"Oh, no, no. He's Luka's," Ivan said quickly. "The CFO of my company."
Till did not know Luka enough to know if he had a dog, even if he privately thought Luka did not seem like the type to have a pet. He felt somewhat irritated for no reason, but ignored it. "I see. Will he be here for a while?"
"I can return him tonight," Ivan firmly told the dog to heel.
"No need to hurry," Till said. He tilted his head to the side. "Mind if I pet him? What's his name?"
"Freddy." Ivan hesitated. "You don't have to."
Till gave him a weirded-out look. "Why would I offer if I didn't want to?"
Ivan looked at him for a while and laughed, a brief huff of breath. "I guess so. I just heard you didn't like dogs. Freddy is a Doberman, people find him scary."
Till, offering his hand for Freddy to sniff, scoffed. "Scared? Uh, no. Where'd that even come from?"
Ivan considered his words before he spoke. "I've heard you were bit by a dog when you were young."
"So you knew about that, huh?" Till's expression cleared. "Not really. Mizi and I were just playing around when we saw a rabid dog. I chased it away, and it did try to bite me, but it only got my jacket sleeve. It was just scared." All the while he said that, he pet Freddy lightly, acclimatizing him to his touch so that the dog wouldn't get uncomfortable.
Ivan didn't respond, so Till looked up, only to see a strange, soft look directed at him. It disappeared the moment he met Till's eyes, though. "Wasn't it a bad experience?"
"Eh, it wasn't great, but," Till shrugged and gave Freddy one last pat. "I met a nice person who helped me all the way to a clinic, so it wasn't so bad."
"He helped you?" Ivan looked at Till, intent.
"Yeah," Till said, trying to remember it. "They were nice enough to," carry me, he was about to say, before changing it to "help me walk all the way."
Ivan's lips curled upwards. "I see."
"Yeah, so dogs are fine. Freddy's cute." Till shifted on his feet. "Do you want to eat now?"
Ivan smiled. "Of course."
Till thought that past him would be pretty amazed by how proactive he was being with Ivan. Previously, he avoided his husband as much as possible, and Ivan left him alone most of the time as well. It was only a few years down the line that Till became comfortable enough to be a little mouthy and relaxed enough to drop the honorifics.
Even though in this moment they didn't have that much shared time between them, Till still felt the same and behaved the same as the Till that was married for eight years.
"Can you pass the pitcher, please?" Ivan asked politely.
"Sure."
Case in point: using honorifics this early on in the marriage was fine, but the fact that Ivan kept using them until the moment he went to that plane was not a normal couple situation. At the time, Till had thought that he was just that uppity, and followed along, just to not seem bitchy and unreasonable.
But, yesterday, the way his husband could be startled or the way he could show such clear expressions on his face was, just a little bit, a tiny tiny little bit, encouraging.
Till chewed absently. It was surprisingly hard to start a conversation. Most of their conversations in the past were Ivan's initiative, and he was never really a talker, anyway. But he at least had to try this time.
"Hey," he began. Ivan blinked. Taking it as a sign to continue, Till said, "I thought that. Maybe we could go out. Sometime. If you want."
Ivan looked at him for such a long time Till began to regret ever opening his mouth.
"Yes, of course, anything you want," Ivan said belatedly. "Did you want to go somewhere in particular?"
I'm asking you to date me, you moron, Till thought vehemently. "Not really. I'm not as familiar with this city as you are."
"In that case," Ivan tapped the table in thought, "I think it would be nice to go to the lake tomorrow. I hear during this time the flowers are blooming, and the weather is lovely. Would that be agreeable?"
"That's okay."
"All right, then."
There was a long, less awkward, but still awkward pause during which Till finished his food and tried desperately to think of another topic. "How's work?"
"It's the usual," Ivan said, his reply faster than the previous.
This guy was a terrible conversationalist, Till thought despairingly. Where on Earth was the gregarious past life Ivan who managed to find something to talk about even from the weather?
Granted, that was Ivan in his thirties. Maybe he got better at shop talk, or business chitchat. Or whatever. Till found it distateful that he was on the same level as a client, but then again, it could be argued he was one.
"What do you plan to do?"
Till looked up from his plate. "Oh, not much, really. Pretty much done with the recordings for my album—I mean, I'm an independent artist. If you didn't know."
"I know," Ivan said. "ALNST, right?"
Till felt a frisson of shock shoot through him like an enthusiastic bullet. "Right. How... how did you know?"
"You are my husband," Ivan said dryly.
Till felt his face warm, and he ducked his head. He didn't know much of Ivan's company. "Right." Even if he was anonymous, it was probably nothing to Ivan to do a thorough background check.
Not for the first time, Till wondered why exactly Ivan had married him. Realistically, while it was a business marriage, there wasn't a whole ton Till himself could contribute. And yeah, sure, his estranged family was filthy rich, but that wasn't everything. Ivan would be better off with a ton other people—and Till was very aware of this fact. Ivan didn't have any shortage of investors, and money did not deep connections make.
But Till would never ask. He desperately wanted to know, and conversely, was scared to find out.
Till chewed on the inside of his cheek and ventured, "Ivan."
"Hm?"
Till fiddled with the paper mat. "How busy are you going to be this week?"
"Not too much," Ivan replied. "What for?"
"I thought," Till haltingly said, "we could, maybe, go out." The way he pointed to the door implied that yes, he meant going out quite literally. He winced, realising he just repeated what he said earlier.
"Of course. When do you prefer?" Ivan didn't question his stupid repeated words.
"Anytime, I guess," Till said, surprised at the immediate agreement. "When you can." He shrugged. "Besides the lake thing, we could have dinner or lunch outside maybe." Look, I don't know, I'm doing my best here.
Ivan nodded slowly.
"I know it's a busy time," Till hastened to say. "But I could drop by to bring you food and stuff. If you don't mind, that is."
"That would be kind of you," Ivan said softly. "And there's nothing more important I have to handle."
"Yeah. So. Yeah." Till shrugged again, because he didn't know what else to say. "Anything you want to eat?"
"As long as it is from you, I'm sure it would be delicious," Ivan replied sincerely.
See, this was why Ivan was such an effective businessman, Till thought. While it was obvious he was being buttered up, and none of it was true besides, the way he said these things was like he meant them. Scary, really.
"I'm a so-so cook," Till deflected. "Please don't force yourself if it isn't edible."
Ivan's lips parted as he stared at Till, his pupils large. "You... you'll make it yourself?"
"Yes?"
Ivan licked his lips. "I'll look forward to it," he said lowly.
Till blinked, thrown by roiling, heavy emotion surging in Ivan's eyes. Over food? Was his company catering that bad? "I'll do my best."
His chopsticks scraped the bottom of the bowl. Till glanced down. It seemed he was done before he knew it.
"There's tiramisu in the refrigerator if you want," Ivan said. He nodded towards Lucille, who had appeared as if by magic at the side, and already had the tin in hand.
Rich people were crazy, Till thought, forgetting he was one too, even if only technically.
The tiramisu was good, of course, not too sweet and mildly bitter, the way he liked it. He offered Ivan a bite, but the other man refused by saying Till should have it all.
As Ivan studiously scraped the bottom of his bowl and Till ate the last bite of mildly bitter tiramisu, he thought it wasn't so bad. At least, Ivan was as accommodating as ever.
For the rest of the day, the two didn't much speak with one another. For Till, it was him defaulting to his previous habits—respecting Ivan's space and keeping himself out of the way. It was surreal, the way he adjusted so easily, as if Ivan was never gone for months—although in this timeline that hadn't happened yet.
Till wasn't quite sure of what he should be doing. Should he divorce Ivan, as Ivan had intended in his past life? Should he try to be more open to Ivan? Or something else?
Maybe he could try to find that elusive first love of Ivan's, Till considered, but felt vaguely ill at the thought, overwhelmed by the time travel and all.
It was more likely Ivan had looked into it as well. And if he, with all the resources Till didn't have, was unable to find them, what chances did Till have? Surely Ivan wouldn't have suffered getting married to Till if he had contact with that person.
His phone chimed. Mizi had messaged him asking about his progress with his composition bottleneck. Till sent her another sticker and sighed as he rolled off the bed. Knowing this house, he should have a studio up top. He hadn't used it for a long time, in the past, but the times he had used it were burned into his mind.
Trying to find out clues about his husband's first love could come later. He didn't want to think about it just yet.
Till was halfway out of his room when he realized he didn't know if the studio was finished yet, or if it was even in the plans this early in the marriage. He did get it around a few months in, so maybe it wasn't a thing yet.
Asking Ivan was too presumptous, anyway it seemed that today Ivan would stay in his study for work, as was customary if he didn't need to be in the company.
He decided to ask Lucille.
"Oh, forgive me," Lucille replied upon inquiry. "I don't actually go beyond the first floor and outside."
Till was flabbergasted. "But who cleans the second floor and the rooftop?"
"The rooftop I clean as asked," Lucille clarified. "I suppose Sir himself cleans the second floor, but I wouldn't know."
Till rubbed his nape in consternation. "Well, thanks anyway."
"I apologize if it wasn't much help," Lucille replied smoothly. "If I could suggest asking Sir himself, I believe he would be very accomodating."
Till rubbed his nape even more. "Uh, yeah, I can do that."
"Sir would be happy to hear from you, I believe," Lucille stressed.
"Okay, okay, fine."
So up Till went again.
There was a hallway between the master bedroom and the study. Till had only ever crossed it to reach the guest bedroom, and that was all. Later on, not even that, when Ivan moved into the master bedroom as well.
Till didn't count his footsteps, but he did slow down.
Ivan had never really told Till that he wasn't allowed near the study. It was Till's own discretion that prevented him. The thought of the gulf between Ivan and himself, made in part by Till's reluctance to brave it—in many ways, he was relieved with Ivan's distance. At least that way he had no illusions about himself.
The study felt like that. It was something Till would not cross out of anxiety, or out of respect. Till had already been in Ivan's home, so at the very least, as a guest, he could give Ivan space.
But now here he was, knocking, quiet raps against the solid wood that rang out like gunshots.
"Yes, the door's open."
"Hello," Till said, hovering uncertainly by the door. "Would it be fine if I played some stuff around here? Is that too loud? Or is there a nearby studio by any chance?" If Till's memory served him correctly, a new studio had opened up in the area, just in time for Till's moving in date. It was really useful, but they did get a studio in the house, so Till didn't go as much later on.
Ivan's desk only had his laptop, Till observed. "Come on in, please," he said, already pulling up directions to show Till. "There's a nearby studio, but, if you don't mind," he paused, and tapped his fingers against his desk, "I have one, on the rooftop."
So his studio was done even this early. No, maybe he was thinking too much. For all he knew, the studio was part of the house before Ivan moved in.
Till practically tiptoed to stand next to Ivan's desk to look at the directions. "I. I've never been there."
"The house and everything in it is at your disposal," Ivan reiterated. "Do you want—would you—" his jaw clenched, and he began, more calmly, "I can show you the studio, if that's all right."
"Of course," Till said, wondering about Ivan's strange uncertainty about the subject. "Rather than me, is it okay with you?"
"It's yours," Ivan said. "All yours."
Till's fingers clenched around themselves, and he mustered the courage to say, "If you didn't use it, was it part of the house when you moved in?"
Ivan lifted his head to pin him with a bright gaze. "No."
Upon that answer, Till fell silent, his heart in his throat, and hated that he felt even a little hope.
As if Ivan thought Till hadn't understood, he repeated. "It's yours. If you want it."
You're too unfair, Till thought, feeling heat burn his eyes. He blinked rapidly to dispel it. "Okay. Then... okay. Lead the way."
Every single step Ivan took felt like they should've been earthquakes instead. Till was rooted into the ground, and wondered why, when he had seen the studio before, when he had gone through this before. Why was it so painful, when Ivan was alive this time?
Why was it so cold? Why did he hurt so much? His breathing was short and hurried, as if he had run for miles without pause.
"Till?" Ivan stopped by the doorway and tilted his head in question.
Till wordlessly shook his head.
"You don't want to go?" Ivan rushed to his side, leaning down to look at his face. Till hid away with his face beneath his hands. "Hmm?"
"No," Till said hoarsely. "No, I mean, I want to go."
"You don't look very well," Ivan, concerned, hesitantly held out a hand. "We can look some other time."
Till swallowed roughly. "I can do it. I want to see."
"Just let me see my husband, please."
Till swallowed again. "Ivan."
"Yes?"
There was nothing Till wanted more than to hold Ivan's hand, to feel his pulse. But he had really taken so many liberties today, and yesterday, too. "Give me a moment."
"Then sit down for a while," Ivan said immediately, guiding his chair near. "You might be tired from yesterday."
Till had literally done nothing for the wedding, no planning, no expense from him, he just had to show up. If anything, it was Ivan who should be tired from all the planning.
He sat down anyway.
The chair was thankfully soft, for once, which was a surprise since Ivan wasn't the type to care much about his comfort. Till's lowered gaze caught the edge of a lower drawer, still halfway shut, as if kicked in a hurry. The edge of a picture frame peeked out, but he couldn't make it out.
"In and out, please, Till."
Till obediently inhaled and exhaled deeply, and the cold sensation slipped away.
"I'm fine," Till said, tipping his head into Ivan's hands. He ran hot, warming Till up from the insides, so Till leaned down further, letting Ivan's broad palms slide over the soft skin of his neck. He shivered.
Ivan shivered too. "Sit for a while," he said, voice a little hoarse.
"I want to see the studio," Till insisted. It didn't matter of he was being willful. He had to face some things. He could go in the kitchen, he could go in the study, so he could go in the studio too.
"All right."
The trek to the rooftop was slow, mainly because Ivan stopped every few minutes to check on Till. It was nice, to be thought of this much, and dangerous too.
To take his mind off that, Till focused on the thought of the studio.
In all honesty, Till wasn't sure of what would happen upon seeing it. Ivan himself was already... so much. But the studio saw his every painful moment. It was stupid of him to forget that.
So many things he didn't think about, because if Ivan was there, what did those little things matter?
"Here," Ivan said quietly. An ornate wooden door carved with an impression of the night sky, hauntingly familiar and out of place in the modern home, stood before them. "I hoped that you would open it first."
Till pressed a minutely shaking hand on the handle and stepped in with a great inhale.
"Do you like it?" Ivan asked. "Happy birthday, Till."
Till's outstreched arms belied his glee. "A whole studio! For me?"
"Of course," Ivan said gently.
"Then," Till bowed softly, a little bit shyly, a little more delighted, "thank you. It's too much. All my gifts are nothing compared to this."
Ivan smiled and held up a wrist. "I wear the watch every day."
"That's nothing," Till said carelessly, already rifling through sheet music stacked on a stand. "Mizi would love this!"
Behind him, Ivan was silent. Till winced. "Sorry, I meant to ask if it's okay to bring people over."
Ivan took a deep breath and smiled. "If you want."
Till beamed. His next album would be soon, and Mizi was a decent lyricist, mostly because she was so heavily inspired by her girlfriend. Although the lyrics would definitely be sugary-sweet, Till thought to himself it should be fine. Because his next album was for Ivan, anyway.
The studio was much the same. Till looked around and saw the glass walls leading into the recording room, the cozy soundproofed room. "A whole studio for me?" He wondered aloud, echoing his previous exclamations with a softer, longing tone.
"Of course." Ivan's voice was slower, more gentle, if that was even possible.
Till was never a crier. At least, in his past life, the number of times he cried could be counted on one hand. But now, the number of times he found himself on the verge of tears was nearly every moment. Every single thing was painful, every single thing was good.
His husband was so good, how could it not be painful?
"Thank you," Till whispered, overcome. His fingers drifted over some piano keys, pressing down on a key absently. "Hey, if you're not too busy today, can I play you something?"
Ivan walked to stand beside him. "Not busy."
"Well, sit down and enjoy, I guess," Till said, buoyed with excitement. "Do you have any requests?"
"Anything you love will be good."
"Hmm." Till considered it, then held up a finger. "Got it."
Ivan's expression softened upon the first few notes, and a smile warmed his face as Till began to sing.
Look at my eyes, I whisper alone as I look at you from far away
Just smile for me once, I can endure it just by seeing your face
The song was played gently by Till, with an expert hand, sweet but with depth. A long-lost lover's arrival, a longing reunion. He closed his eyes, feeling Ivan's presence as strongly as if he was curled up in him, and the words came out easier.
Though I extend my hand, though I extend it with all my strength, I can’t reach you
When Till lifted his eyes to meet Ivan's, he was surprised to see Ivan mouthing the words along without sound.
It seemed like I got closer so I called you with a fluttering heart
But there’s no answer, I guess I can never reach you
Till smiled, his eyes lighting up, and pointed a hand at Ivan then at himself, motioning for him to sing along. Ivan shook his head, and Till pouted, brows knitting together. Ivan gave in surprisingly quickly, and began to sing as well, his low voice twining with Till's smoothly.
Since when did I start being with you? From the moment I opened my eyes and started to breathe
It was as if bubbles were filling up Till from the inside, and he barely supressed the urge to giggle madly, to avoid ruining the song. Till felt as if he were one of the dust motes carried along by the gentle sunbeam that was Ivan's voice, rich and smooth, a perfect harmony with Till's. As expected, his husband was the best.
Even if this song was so sad.
I guess I can never reach you
Till lifted his hands with a flourish and applauded. "You're amazing! That was so good!"
Ivan flushed faintly. "No, no, it was your accompaniment that did all the work," he deflected.
Till shook his head. "No. You're good. I'm the expert here, okay? Take the compliment."
Ivan laughed helplessly. "All right, then thank you, Till."
"Let's do it more," Till said, excited, already going through the pieces in his head. "Next, I want—"
Ivan's phone rang, shattering Till's thoughts.
Ivan cursed lowly, sending a brief sputter of fire in Till's stomach, an association with a memory, and checked his phone. He frowned and put it away.
"No," Till said, awkwardly, "take it."
Ivan nodded stiffly and answered the call, walking away as he did so. "Luka?"
Till's throat closed up.
Ah, yes, Luka.
OMAKE:
"Hello, Luka?" Ivan could barely tamp down the irritation in his tone, knowing Till could probably still hear him. He headed downstairs and lowered his voice.
"If it isn't our absentee newlywed president!" Ivan could hear some beeping and traffic sounds from the CFO's side. "Well, I have the kennel and the food and even the toys ready. I'll get Freddy in a bit."
"No, that's not what I messaged you for," Ivan sighed, irritated anew at the memory of the interruption.
"Did you want another studio? Or maybe your darling doesn't like your fresh new interior design? Do you need an arsenal of people to attend to his every whim?"
"Shut up," Ivan said, unrepentant at the memory of those past actions. "I'm not going to have Freddy stay over."
"I'm halfway there already," Luka clicked his tongue. "But that means he's fine with dogs?"
"Mm." Ivan lowered his voice. "He said... it wasn't so bad. Because he met someone nice who helped him to the clinic."
Raucous laughter answered him, and Luka sniffed a few times, gathering himself before he replied. "You must've felt really good about that, huh?"
"Shut up," Ivan said again without heat, a gentle smile curving his lips at the memory. But his frown returned upon remembering what, exactly, Luka had cut into. "I was with him in the studio just now. Don't call so much next time, he'll get skittish again."
"I only called you once," Luka said dryly. "And I texted before, too."
"Just don't. Anyway, Freddy's fine. Go back home."
Luka scoffed. "I see how it is. You just want to return to your baby."
"Don't act as if you don't plan to do that too."
"I never said that." Luka laughed. "Well, I do so hate to cut into your lovey-dovey time, but as they say, an eye for an eye. ANAKT's representatives have contacted me today for the ledger." He paused, no doubt savoring Ivan's rising ire. "The stakeholder meeting will need that, too."
Ivan grumbled under his breath. "It's my honeymoon."
"Very inconvenient, I'm sure. Documents by 9 PM, please. You owe me since I'll be doing that all on my own."
Ivan hung up, glaring nastily at the phone.
Before he could put it away, a text from Luka said, with the same gleeful tones: unfortunately, you need money to raise your canary~
Ivan turned on the seen receipts and didn't reply, instead bounding back up to the studio, already imagining the sweet smile awaiting him.