Work Text:
In retrospect, it starts with a tweet. No, really, it starts before that–with an impulsive purchase he makes at a 24-hour pharmacy because his older sister is both the bane of his existence and an instigator.
“That’s the latest line, isn’t it?” Sua asks when he picks up the tube. There’s a picture of some idol plastered on the plastic, giving him a giant wink as cartoon stars literally fly from her eyes. “Mizi said it’s supposed to be a miracle-worker.”
Ivan turns it over in his hands. Supercharged Gel Creme, he reads. Anti-Dark Circles. Works overnight.
The price tag printed on the label is equivalent to about half his paycheck. Ivan doesn’t care. He hands it to Sua and she stares at him, scrutinizing his skin.
“Your eyebags look okay,” she says, which is about as much of a compliment as he’ll ever get from her.
“N-Not for me,” he replies stubbornly, tripping over the words as Sua’s expression falls. “For Till. Cause he always has really big eyebags when he comes into work.”
“Why don’t you just ask to move in with him then,” Sua deadpans but throws the box into their cart regardless.
“Eye cream,” he says the next day, pressing the cardboard into Till’s hands. “For your…” Ivan trails off, mortified. He might as well have just handed his sunbae a big white card that says “YOU LOOK LIKE FUCKING SHIT”.
Ivan tries to salvage the scraps of the situation but it’s far too late. Till’s already busted the box open, digging one carefully painted nail into the corner. All Ivan can do now is watch with bated breath.
He stares at the tube, flicking his gaze from Ivan to the squished lettering and back to Ivan again.
“Eye cream?” he says finally and Ivan watches in horror as his expression teeters on the edge of confusion before it pitches into understanding. “Oh my god, it’s because…” Till’s laugh interrupts his own sentence and Ivan’s stuck oscillating between wanting to die from mortification and transcending into another plane at the beauty of the noise.
“I look like shit, don’t I?” Till says, running one hand through his hair and all Ivan can think is no, no, no, you look like the most beautiful person alive because it’s true, even with the sweatshirt tied loose around his waist and the two hours of sleep written on his skin. “But thanks, Ivan, this’ll definitely come in handy.”
Ivan nods because there’s not enough of his voice left to function. The director hollers at them from the set, Till tucks the box into his back pocket and Ivan thinks that’s the end of that, his red-hot embarrassment the only souvenir from the exchange.
His phone proves him wrong when it pings later that night, bearing a notification from Twitter. Mentioned by TILL | filming Alien Stage! it reads and Ivan has never sat up faster in his fucking life.
It’s a mirror selfie–Till’s posted dozens of those, Ivan has a whole folder for them on his phone–and he’s looking straight into the glass, his hair mussed. What’s notable about this picture is the little tube he’s holding in one hand.
Long but fulfilling day at work, the caption reads. Thanks for the eye cream @ivan. Looking forward to another great day of filming tomorrow.
It’s more for publicity than anything but that doesn’t stop Ivan’s heart from racing a mile a minute, the words playing on loop in his mind. Thanks for the eye cream @ivan. he thinks, over and over again. Thanks for the eye cream @ivan.
He only settles down in bed when Sua kicks the flimsy wall between the two of their rooms. He likes and retweets the post before turning his phone off, face-down and has the best fucking sleep he’s had in years.
The reputation he’s spent the better part of a year carefully culminating crumbles like sand overnight. By exactly 7 in the morning the next day, he’s been rebranded to a lovesick puppy by a majority of the online community.
“Congratulations,” Sua says over breakfast the next day. She’s emptied the last grounds of his specially-imported coffee into her mug because she knows it’s his favorite. (She doesn’t even drink coffee–she’s a fucking tea drinker.) “On your new relationship. And during pride month too.” She lifts the rim of her cup in a toast and Ivan slams both hands down on the hardwood of their table.
“Says who?” he snaps, leaning forward.
“Twitter,” Sua replies dryly, sliding her phone across to him. A wall of incomprehensible text greets him, complete with a couple of RATED R emojis, incoherent keyboard smashing and the repeated use of a new hashtag that is now trending on Twitter–#ivantill.
“That’s,” he sniffs, knowing his words carry no real heat with his cheeks flushed rosy red. “That’s ridiculous. Who would say that stuff about Till?”
Sua takes a long, judgemental sip of her coffee.
“You know I can see you bookmarking that Tweet, right.”
Ivan chucks the phone at her.
He has a fistful of lollipops that he tries to keep hidden but Hyuna’s always had a good nose for bullshit.
“Give me one,” she says, eyeing the sticks protruding from his pocket. Ivan scowls before fishing out five DUM-DUMS , all of them wrapped in hot pink paper.
“Seriously?” Hyuna asks, rolling her eyes. “ Bubblegum? That’s like the worst flavor out there.”
“It tastes good,” Ivan snaps back, despite the fact that he’s never chewed a piece of bubblegum in his life.
The door bangs open and Till’s left standing in the open gap. He tosses them a small wave, crossing the room to reach them and Ivan’s heart pops out of his chest before he shoves it hastily back into his ribcage.
“What do you think?” Till taps the skin under his eyes for emphasis, which looks about two shades lighter than it was the day before.
“Looks great,” Ivan replies immediately.
“I’m glad that I caught you though, I wanted to say sorry.” Ivan’s breath hitches because he has no clue what Till has to be sorry about. Ever. Whatever it is, it’s the other guy’s fault. “Sorry for dragging you into… all this on Twitter.”
Oh. Oh. As if this exact scenario isn’t Ivan’s wish every New Year’s.
I’d go wherever you dragged me, he thinks but clamps his jaw shut with the last shreds of his self-control.
“Not a problem at all,” he replies earnestly and Till looks like he’s about to protest some more when he catches sight of the lollipops splayed out on the table.
He raises one eyebrow in a question and Ivan nods, picking one up to pass to him. Sure, Till could reach out and grab one himself but now Ivan has a legitimate excuse to brush fingers, which is as close to hand-holding as his delusional self will ever get.
“Bubblegum’s my favorite,” Till says, smiling softly, which Ivan knows because he has every scrap from every one of his interviews in a box under his bed. “What a coincidence.”
“Truly,” Ivan replies as Hyuna launches into the worst coughing fit of her life. She edges backwards in an extremely non-subtle manner.
Someone calls out to Till and he turns to face them, lollipop wedged between his teeth. He still looks tired as shit but the stage lights have always been generous to him, making the angles of his face appear soft and gentle in their glow.
Hyuna reaches over and closes Ivan’s wide-open mouth for him.
Ivan finds her in her trailer, lounging on a chair. Hyuna’s smoking again even though he’s pretty sure the director already confiscated two of her cigarette boxes this morning.
He waves her latest tweet in one hand, the like count still climbing steadily. There’s a picture of Ivan passing Till a lollipop attached to it–their fingers intertwined. I love my co-workers, the caption reads. Happy pride month🌈.
She glances at the screen and understanding dawns on her as her lip curls into a grin.
“What? It’s good to live a little,” she says, blowing smoke into the tiny confines of the room.
Twitter’s in an uproar and Ivan’s not much better off. His jaw works furiously. “You know there’s… we’re not… you know that Till and I aren’t dating!” he finally spits out, glaring at her.
“I see no difference, love is love,” Hyuna replies, which isn’t anywhere close to an apology. “Besides–I didn’t say you two were dating!”
He gives her a long, disbelieving stare, pointing vigorously at the attached emoji. She shrugs in response and he makes one more feeble pass at intimidation before storming off.
Her laugh follows him as he slams the door shut.
A bike going downhill only picks up speed due to momentum. Similarly, Ivan and Till’s “relationship” online starts with the initial tweet and rapidly snowballs out of control.
Till is exhausted. He’s not technically the star of the show (he is in Ivan’s book though) but he probably has the second-highest screen time after Mizi and he racks up the most emotion in his singing. Point is: he’s exhausted after filming scene-after-scene and he looks cold slumped in his folding chair so Ivan can’t help but strip off his sweatshirt and lay it gently on his shoulders.
Unfortunately, Luka captures a picture of him doing so. Unfortunately, Luka captures many pictures of him doing so and decides to share them all with the whole fucking world. He has to be acutely aware of his 1 million+ followers when he puts them up on his Twitter, he has to. There’s a number of questionable emojis in the caption that Ivan supposes could be inappropriate if he squints.
His mentions explode and he struggles to keep up. He used to scour their barren AO3 tag (occasionally) but now he’s drowning in fic recs. A box of condoms appears in his trailer one day and he doesn’t even know which of the perpetrators to pin it on.
Sua posts a picture of them on lunch break, splitting a sandwich because Till keeps forgetting to bring lunch. Don’t know how my parents are gonna feel about the gray hair, she captions it. #ivantill she adds because she’s a traitor who definitely got swapped in the hospital at birth.
Hyuna gets another one of Till wearing Ivan’s jacket because he’d mentioned something about the wind machines being cold and sure, Ivan’s skin might have prickled up with goosebumps the second he peeled his jacket off but what other choice did he have when Till had that forlorn expression on his face?
Even Mizi, sweet, innocent, Mizi jumps on the metaphorical bandwagon. Aren’t they adorable? #ivantill she tweets, complete with a picture of the two of them asleep in the break room. Ivan’s head is lolled onto Till’s shoulder and maybe it’s a cute picture and maybe it does make them look exactly like a couple but in his defense, they were both extremely exhausted after filming Round 6 for ten hours straight. And Till sang like the rent was due in the finale.
His PR team is having the best fucking time of their lives and there are more fan-edits than even he can keep track of. And that’s saying something.
It hits a peak when Ivan tries to give him another box–hand lotion since his skin felt dry last time–and Till’s fingers curl around the edges, pushing it back with the meat of his palm.
Ivan blinks at him, stunned, and whatever anger was carved into Till’s face melts away at his expression.
“Come here for a second,” he says, beckoning Ivan offstage and he follows him. (He’d follow him even if he asked him to get in the back of an unmarked, white van to look for his lost puppy.)
“You have talent, Ivan,” Till says and Ivan didn’t know he was gonna start swinging out of the gate. He’s left mentally unprepared and nearly astral projects into the next dimension with ecstasy. “You might be new to the scene but you’re good. I’m sure you don’t have to worry about landing your next role.”
“Thank you,” Ivan says when he remembers how to talk again.
“You don’t need to,” Till scuffs at a mark on the floor, looking up like he’s struggling to find the words. “You don’t need to keep attaching yourself to me for the fame. I’m sure you’ll do good for yourself, with or without my help.”
“Pardon?” he asks because he’d been too focused on the shape of his mouth to follow his words.
“You don’t need to keep acting like you like me in order to gain fans,” Till sighs and it’s such a bizarre statement that Ivan halts in his tracks.
“You thought I was being nice to you for publicity,” he repeats, just to make sure he’s hearing right.
Till blinks at him.
“Yes?”
“Of course not!” Ivan snaps. The words are rolling off his tongue before he can process them, heat unfurling in his gut. “I–”
His voice abruptly falls short like he’s come face-to-face with a cliff. He tears himself back at the last moment, teetering on the precipice.
“You what?” Till asks quietly, staring up at him.
And Ivan’s already in one foot deep–has been, really, since the night with the eye cream, since the night he first landed the role on Alien Stage, since the night he first watched Till act and fell in love. He might as well go all the way.
“I do those things because I like you,” Ivan mumbles.
“What?” Till asks, squinting at him.
“ I SAID I DO THOSE THINGS BECAUSE I LIKE YOU! ” he yells, eyes squeezed shut. It’s a relief in a way to finally let loose the emotions that have been coiled so tightly around his chest. He feels light, free.
Silence pools around them, first in seconds, then in minutes. Ah . Ivan is well-versed in the taste of rejection and at least all that time in showbiz has taught him when to pursue a tactical retreat.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, bowing low. “I’ll refrain from–”
“I didn’t say that,” Till says, cutting him off and Ivan peers through the curtain of his own hair to look at him. He has one hand pressed over his mouth like he’s trying to cover it and his cheeks are dusted pink. “I didn’t say that you were making me uncomfortable.”
And then the cincher–his eyes go wide when he catches Ivan staring and then he snaps his gaze away like he’s been caught red-handed. Til lis blushing, Ivan realizes and he pinches his arm to make sure he’s not dreaming. The pain that shoots up his arm is real and welcome.
Till is blushing because of something he said.
Opportunity never knocks twice or some bullshit and Ivan is ready to fling open the metaphorical door.
He’s on him in an instant, gripping both of his hands in his.
“Can I take you out to dinner?” he asks and Till tries to squirm away but now that Ivan’s acutely aware of his effect, he leverages it to his advantage. Till tries to look away but there’s nowhere to look instead.
Ivan leans in as close as he dares and he’s rewarded with Till’s cheeks rising steadily in color like a thermometer.
“Fine!” Till sputters and oh my god, he’s so cute Ivan feels like he could die. He really might if his heart and sunbae keep this up. “But I’m paying, I’m older!”
“Deal,” he says, picking at Till’s clasped fingers. When he doesn’t resist, Ivan pries them free and laces them with his own. He gives their hands a tight squeeze as he tugs him towards the door.
Till’s still making hard eye contact with the floor, cheeks flushed bright red, but he gives him a tiny little squeeze back.
Ivan’s barren Twitter account (his main one, not his secret Till stan account that he keeps under lock and key) has exactly three tweets on it. The first one is his announcement of his casting in Alien Stage. The second one is his announcement of the release of Round 3 of Alien Stage.
And the third and most recent addition is a picture of Till fighting a particularly fatty piece of meat at the grill.
Dinner with @till after a long day of filming! the text under it reads. Never met someone who’s more skilled at grilling meat.
And then at the bottom, a couple spaces below the caption like it’s an afterthought.
#ivantill.