Chapter Text
Till takes the job at the cafe for the same reason anyone works a job: he needs the fucking money. It's why he worked the convenience store overnight shift five nights a week despite the hell it wrecked on his sleep schedule and why he used to get up at five am before that to walk rich people's dogs around the block to save the precious blue bloods from freezing in winter. Point is, Till will do just about anything for a check. That doesn't explain why Ivan's here too.
Ivan is an inseparable, inescapable fact of life. Where there is a Till, there is an Ivan. It no longer surprised Till to take his fifteen between stocking milks and gatorades to see that Ivan happened to swing by for a midnight slurpee run. When Till started the dog walking gig, of course it was a perfect time for Ivan to start running in the mornings with his father’s German Shepherd. Why Till is at all taken aback to walk into the Heart Cafe for his first day of training to see Ivan already behind the counter in an apron is a mystery.
“Oh good,” the manager says, busy or pretending to be busy with a clipboard in his hand. “You must be Till, the new hire. Ivan the slightly-less-new hire will show you around.”
“Sure he will,” Till says sourly. Luka blinks at him and it occurs to Till belated that he looks like an ass.
“How is your mother doing?” Ivan asks politely, breaking the chilly silence.
“Fine,” Till says shortly, feeling suitably cowed at the reminder that all the women he loves are crazy about this jerk.
“You two know each other?”
“Childhood friends, though we’ve lost touch. What a nice surprise that we can reconnect here,” Ivan lies like a fucking liar, he strong armed his way into dinner at Till’s mom’s house just two weeks ago.
“Like a manga or something, huh. Cute,” Luka says, as though the word physically pains him. Annoying that Ivan covered for Till yet again.
“I’ll show you the staff room, you can put your bag down there.” Ivan leads Till around the corner back to a small room decked out with a half a dozen lockers. As soon as the door swings shut, Till slams Ivan against it.
“I am gonna put my fist in your face,” Till threatens, trying his very best to loom despite the height difference. Ivan, infuriatingly compliant, makes eye contact and gives a winning smile.
“Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”
“It was Mom, wasn’t it? When she made me go out and pick up ice cream for dessert from the corner store you squeezed it out of her like some kind of gigalo-”
“Please, Till. Io is far too classy a lady to require such services. You, on the other hand-”
Till gives him a little shake and Ivan skips like a scratched record onto the next track.
“Your mother likes to talk about you and I am a captivated audience. She may have mentioned you had high hopes for the new cafe opening up.” Ivan’s eyes focus just over Till’s shoulder and Till releases him, spooked at getting caught bullying the handsome new hire. Fuck, everyone here is gonna love Ivan, he’s a way better fit for this place.
“Yeah, well.” Till opens the nearest locker and tosses in his bag and jacket in a crumpled heap on the bottom. “Lucky for me they had two slots. I’d have killed you if you sniped it.”
“That was never in question,” Ivan says placidly. “If you didn’t get the job, it would have defeated the purpose.”
Ivan pauses to hang Till’s jacket up with care, which deeply irritates him. How dare Ivan treat Till’s second hand coat with the rip in the lining as good or better than his stupid designer monochrome bullshit.
“Mind the gap,” Ivan says, closing the locker with a gentle push instead of Till’s customary slam. “The back of the lockers isn’t quite flush, so it’s possible something can fall back there and get lost.”
“Whatever,” Till grumbles, only half listening. “Gimme an apron and let’s go already.”
~~
Till turns out to be as skilled in customer service as he is in most things - which is to say not at all. His coffee pours are weak, his latte art tragically blobby, and his smile closer to a grimace than anything else. Whenever possible, they put him in the kitchen plating the ready-eat pastries and pre-made sandwiches. Occasionally he sweeps the floor.
Possibly he would have been fired by now, except that Ivan has somehow managed to get all their shifts in parallel and he more than makes up for Till’s shortcomings. He charms everyone from soccer moms to the elderly. Once the word gets out that Ivan works here, the store is packed with mooney-eyed girls from his instagram who all want the most elaborate whip cream bullshit monstrosities on the menu. If Till’s on expo, Ivan upsells them extra cream, sugar, sprinkles and cookie toppings just to make Till’s life harder.
“Sounds like you’re having fun,” his Mom says breezily when he calls to complain. “I think it’s sweet he’s helping you out.”
“What, cause I can’t hold down a job on my own?” Till snaps, feeling the sore spot.
“Because he probably misses you,” Io says. “You two were attached at the hip all the way up through graduation, but you’re working so much now. He’s a full time student and has his agency work and he still makes time to come and see you.”
Till scowls at the phone. It’s true that Ivan has about a million better things to do in life than stalk Till, but everybody needs a hobby. An Ivan who wasn’t following him around without his say-so wasn’t an Ivan at all. What, Till’s supposed to be grateful or something?
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” His mother probes. “Having someone looking out for you. Each of you can do what you’re best at.”
“I guess,” Till admits, if only so she’ll stop talking about it. Thinking about Ivan’s good points always frustrates him like this. “Sorry for being snippy.”
“We’re used to it,” Io says gently.
And they are used to Till, and Till’s used to all this, or thinks he is until Hyuna leans across the table in back during their shared break and goes “so are you two…?”
“What.” Till says around the Iced Americano straw he’s chewing to pieces.
“Ya know.” Hyuna could raise a knowing eyebrow here or flop her wrist in a vaguely insulting way, but being Hyuna, she makes a particularly vulgar gesture using her break time donut and three fingers. Three? Till feels his flush erupt uncontrollably, patchy and unattractive.
“Fuck no,” Till swears, sucking down the rest of his drink in two long gulps to get away. “Not if he was the last guy on Earth.”
“Hm,” Hyuna says, clearly not buying it. “I can keep a secret, you know.”
She can’t, but it doesn’t matter because it’s Ivan, it’s not happening. It would be like falling for a terminal disease; just because Till’s doomed to carry it around doesn’t mean he’s got to like it. And a virus doesn’t get a crush on its fucking host.
“Your distaste is hardly a secret,” Ivan says, directly behind Till. God, does Till hate when he fucking does that. Ivan walks past to the lockers, slipping off his coat, coming in late for the afternoon shift because of his Wednesday morning final.
“Aw, you hurt his feelings,” Hyuna says, deeply unserious.
“I am mortally wounded,” Ivan agrees. “You should give me a donut for my last request. Preferably one you haven’t fingered.”
Hyuna beams, offering him a jelly cream. “Me an’ Till will head back, you can lick your wounds and the donut too.”
After his shift, Till changes in the back, swapping out his dress shirt for a loose black hoodie. He also swaps out his dress pants for a baggier, more casual style. When he goes to reach for his belt, though, he comes up empty.
“The fuck,” Till says, turning the place upside down.
“Did you lose something?” Ivan asks blandly, leaning on his broom like he’s at a photoshoot. Till’s eyes narrow suspiciously.
“You were in here by yourself,” he accuses. “After me and Hyuna went back on the floor.”
“Would you like to search me?” Ivan asks, amused. “I’m an open book.”
Luka, listening in, frowns deeply. “Theft is a serious accusation. What was the belt worth?”
“I’d say… ten dollars before tax, five years ago.” Ivan guesses. Till glares. It had been two dollars cheaper because it had a dent in the metal buckle.
“It may be among my things as I did come in later. Perhaps I picked it up by mistake. Take a look.” Ivan opens his locker with a grandiose gesture that means wherever he hid it, Till’s not gonna find it easy.
“No,” Till says, suddenly self conscious of their audience. “If you find it later, just let me know.”
“I certainly will,” Ivan promises with the same not-sorry smile he used whenever he used to steal Till’s shit. He quit doing it so much after they hit high school; something must have put him in a bad mood today.
“Ah, one moment.” Luka disappears into the office, then comes back with two small envelopes. “After the trial period, we give the newcomers a small stipend for work clothes. Well, you can use it on anything, if you want to pick up a new belt in the meantime.” He gives each of them their money and waves them off to wrap up the night’s accounting. Outside the cafe, Ivan tries to hand Till his own envelope too.
“That’s yours,” Till says irritably. “I still want my belt back.”
“If it’s lost, I’m sure it will be found,” Ivan answers cryptically. “I hardly need more clothes, I receive so many free samples from shoots that it would be a waste. I’d simply give you my excess, but…” Ivan eyes Till up and down, from his scrawny chicken legs to his narrow, toneless chest. Compared to Ivan, it’s a goddamn joke.
“Fuck off,” Till sneers, heading to the bus stop. “I’m not taking the pay off, I want my stuff back. I thought you were over that kid shit by now, it’s been years.”
“People don’t change,” Ivan says, and some quality of his voice makes Till hesitate.
“Sometimes they do,” Till argues, not sure why it matters except that Ivan’s not looking at him. He’s looking up at the sky, dark so early in the winter months that it might as well be midnight. It’s unsettling that Till doesn’t know what Ivan’s thinking whenever he’s not focused in on Till.
“They don’t,” Ivan says firmly. “I don’t, and neither do you.” He turns his attention back to Till, smile back in place, reboot complete. “It looks like it might snow. Let me drive you home.”
Till does, and when he gets inside, the money envelope marked IVAN is somehow in his right coat pocket.
~~
“You’re coming to the party, right?” Mizi asks, picking up her white chocolate mocha, extra chocolate sauce and Till stutters, blushes and flees. Ivan finds him in the back absently rearranging the syrups in the least useful configuration.
“Luka says to go clean out front,” Ivan says, using the long handle of the broom to catch Till behind the knees, nearly taking him out and the shelf unit too. Till clings to the wall to keep from falling and turns around to glare. “She’s already left.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Till sulks, snatching the broom from Ivan.
Ivan hums a little. “Are you coming tonight?”
The answer is usually no. Till’s first instinct to anything Ivan asks is to say no and it’s a good one. Ivan’s parties draw big crowds of people Till doesn’t know or like, so if he goes he tends to hover around the edges trying to catch a glimpse of Mizi and slinking off miserably an hour in. Till’s taking a couple classes on sound engineering and working on his music and working any job that will have him, no matter how temporary. He doesn’t have a lot in common with the kids whose parents can pay for dorms and meal cards.
Plus Ivan’s always busy at these things. It’s not like Till wants Ivan to pay attention to him or anything, but it’s weird when they’re in the same house, same room and there’s a wall of people in between. What’s even the point of going.
A lightbulb moment.
“No way,” Till lies.
~~
Till shows up at Ivan’s when the party is in full swing, every light blazing in the three story townhouse Ivan’s parents bought him for a college starter home. There are people on the porch in front smoking and a cluster in back around the blazing firepit despite the cold. Inside the house is sweltering, full of bodies, perfume and heat. It makes his stomach turn.
Till can’t help glancing around hopefully for Mizi, but the odds aren’t in his favor. She likes to roll in fashionably late, and by then his nerves are usually so worn thin that he contents himself with a single longing look before calling it quits. There’s no Mizi yet, but he does see Ivan in a crowd four people deep, expression pleasant and placid in a way that means sober and bored. Till will never understand why Ivan does these kinds of things if he hates it too.
The second floor has a few people in the games room playing pool and pinball, and a couple of tipsy girls waiting for the upstairs bathroom. They don’t pay any attention to Till, hoodie pulled up and mask over his mouth to hide his face. They wouldn’t know his face either way.
“It’s so hard to find an opening,” one girl wails to her friend.
“There, there,” her friend says, patting her on the shoulder. “You’ve been gunning for him all semester, I’m sure Ivan will give in soon.”
Till suppresses a snort of derision as he slinks up to the top floor to Ivan’s bedroom. If Ivan sleeps with her, he’d planned to do it all along, pretending not to notice all her pathetic attempts to seduce him along the way. It’s the kind of thing Ivan likes, playing with girls like mice. It’s kind of sick, but then they like Ivan in the first place so it’s their own damn fault.
Ivan’s bedroom is locked but that never stopped Till before. He uses his point card for the movie rental shop to jimmy the lock and slip inside. It’s clean, pleasantly decorated and smells of Ivan. As usual, the place gives Till the creeps. It’s like setting foot in Dracula’s lair or a mummy’s tomb.
Where would Ivan keep his belt, anyway? Till realizes he’s smiling while he searches the usual places: under the pillow, under the mattress, in the sock drawer. Man, the look on Ivan’s face when it’s the only thing that goes missing? Maybe Ivan’ll steal it again later, go back and forth a while.
There’s a creak outside the door while Till’s checking the walk in closet. He hastily turns off the flashlight of his cellphone and draws the closet door nearly shut, worried that the click of it sliding to a full close would be a dead give away.
At the doorway, Ivan pauses. He turns the door knob a few times; it’s clearly still locked, just slightly out of frame. Till wonders if he left anything out of place. His heart is beating at double time; he really doesn’t want Ivan to find him. He’ll make some kind of stupid fucking joke, like finally out of the closet now, Till? and then Till will explode. This is Ivan’s fault anyway, why should he be the one embarrassed.
Ivan walks over to his bedside table, the one Till avoided out of a nervous sort of instinct. He’d been expecting weird shit: lube, condoms, possibly a horse whip and some kind of taser, but Ivan opens the drawer and takes out Till’s belt.
Till’s stunned, completely flummoxed with his own good luck. Ivan wraps the belt around his hand in a loop across his knuckles. Till grabs the door to the closet to fling it open with an ah-fucking-ha you rat bastard thief but then Ivan brings the belt up and kisses it.
It’s so weird that Till stops mid gesture, door half open.
Ivan’s kiss on the leather of the belt is gentle at first: a press of lips, a hint of his offset tooth. Then he drags his tongue along the stitching obscenely, eyes sliding shut with bliss. Ivan traces the buckle’s edge, the dented metal with his open mouth, extending his long tongue to click the metal prong back and forth with the tip. Ivan’s other hand rests on his stomach, then slides down to his waistband…
Ivan turns abruptly and Till’s heart is in his throat.
“Dahlia?” Ivan says, looking toward the bedroom door.
“Sorry, I was looking for you,” says the drunk hopeful from the bathroom line.
“And so I have been found,” Ivan says cheerfully. “Come down and have a drink with me. I’ll make you my speciality. I’d love to catch up.” To Till’s fury, Ivan winds the belt up neatly, then stows it in the pocket of his fashionably oversized pants.
“Oh,” says the girl, clearly torn. She wants to force the issue with bed, Ivan, and lockable door at hand, but also there’s the appeal of special treatment in front of the crowd downstairs. In the end, clout wins out. It always does with Ivan’s girls.
“Sure,” she says, letting him steer her back downstairs. Ivan turns back to close the bedroom door, throwing a wink in Till’s general direction.
~~
It’s just Ivan fucking with him, right? Right. Till’s fine with it, he’s over it, he’s gonna keep Ivan’s money and buy a better belt. Then Till’s shirt goes missing.
“Where is it?” Till asks loudly, slamming open the door to the floor where Ivan’s restocking the holiday mugs.
“Be more specific,” Ivan requests, not even looking up and that makes Till snap. Ivan thinks he knows Till, huh, knows what buttons to press and how to make it all look so normal, so natural, like he’s never done anything fucking weird or wrong in his life.
“Fuck you,” Till says, sliding the box of mugs aside with his foot before grabbing Ivan by the back of his apron and hauling him back to the staff room. Hyuna and Luka, getting ready to leave, stare as Till throws Ivan headfirst into the lockers. Ivan catches himself with one arm, but winces slightly. Till doesn’t even trust that, too good a chance Ivan’s faking hurt to make Till calm down.
“Dump out your shit,” he says. “I fucking mean it. I’m sick of you jerking me around, it’s not funny.”
Ivan gives a little huff of breath like what are you even talking about but puts his messenger bag on the table. When he’s slow to open the pockets, Till reaches over and turns it upside down, giving it a shake. Ivan’s gloves, his wallet, his headphones all tumble out. An extra scarf. An early Christmas card from one of his admirers. His phone bounces and hits the floor, skidding across the room with a disturbing crack. Of course Ivan fucking follows the no phones on the floor rule to a T. There’s no belt. There’s no shirt.
“Is it on you, where’d you hide it?” Till snaps, wheeling on Ivan again who is watching Till with rapt attention. To anyone else it would look like shock, but Till knows fucking better. He’s getting off on this, getting Till’s attention, all his anger, all his everything. Till wants to beat him to death with a chair.
“Hide what?”
“Don’t you fucking what me like you don’t know. Where’s my shirt?” Till pulls on Ivan’s apron, trying to check his pockets.
“You’ll rip it,” Ivan says mildly, letting himself be manhandled.
“This shirt?”
Till turns. Hyuna’s bent down, halfway inside Till’s locker. She straightens up holding Till’s band tee between two fingers.
“Hm,” Luka says, the single syllable so judgmental that Till cringes to hear it.
“There’s a gap between the lockers in the back, didn’t you know?” Hyuna asks cheerfully. “You really shouldn’t jump to conclusions like that.” She slaps Till on the shoulder and hands him the shirt.
“My fault for not telling him,” Ivan says modestly, except that he did tell Till, didn’t he. There is a chance, a tiny chance, that Ivan really hid that shirt back there just to fuck with Till some more but the idea is so paranoid, so petty that Till can’t even entertain it. Ivan doesn’t seem smug enough for one thing, and for another, Till’s outburst really could have gotten him fired and presumably Ivan wouldn’t want that. Till risks a glance at Luka.
Luka looks at Hyuna, smiling cheerily, so happy to have solved the problem, and Ivan, placidly repacking his bag, and then briefly closes his eyes. He rubs between his brows like he’s warding off a headache.
“At least we were closed,” he says, and that seems to be the signal to let things die. Till hurries off to the bus stop, staunchly ignoring Ivan the whole way. He won’t apologize. Nobody can make him.
Till’s mad as hell even when he gets home, stomping and clomping his way back into his apartment, flinging his coat and scarf on his sad little couch before throwing himself dramatically face down on the bed. The brief temper tantrum is a better alternative than smashing something, even if his place is kind of a cheap little shithole. If he broke anything big, anything important, he could just mention it to Ivan and it would magically be replaced. Busted headphones. Smashed guitar. Hoodie ripped apart at the sleeves. What had Ivan been doing with all the shit he’d borrowed, stolen or replaced over the years?
What do you think, you little idiot, says the small voice in Till’s head that always tells him when he’s being a fuck. He doesn’t listen to it much, mostly because it sounds too damn much like Sua most days.
He does briefly consider calling his mom, but her open delight at acknowledging the homoerotic subtext of his oldest friendship might literally fucking kill him. Instead, Till sulks himself into a three hour nap. When he wakes up, there’s a text waiting for him. He ought to ignore it. He always pretends he’s going to Ignore Ivan, and not even two minutes later he swipes the message open.
You seem upset.
Till types out his response with gritted teeth.
i want my fukin belt back
Another few minutes and then another message pops up on his lock screen. I’m using it at the moment. It says there’s a picture attachment.
Till sits up. He hesitates over the slider to open the message and see for himself. Ivan’s done a lot of fuck shit over the years. There’s no reason why the threat of one possible lewd is enough to make Till’s heart thud so hard in his chest.
He clicks the message.
The picture is of Ivan’s torso, fully clothed. One hand splays suggestively at his hip, prominently showing off Till’s belt neatly notched around Ivan’s waist. He’s just… wearing it. Ivan’s wearing Till’s belt like a normal person would wear a belt, like Till’s the weird one for thinking anything different. Till’s got a suspended kind of confusion settling in, staring at the picture like he thinks it’s going to change to something else right in front of his eyes. Like he’s expecting something else. Like he’s fucking disappointed.
~~
The pattern of the brick wall behind Ivan in the picture is not particularly distinct except for a spot a little to his left with a purple-black scrawl running sloppily across the grout. Till had gotten too drunk and too cocky on a night out and signed his name right there, bragging to anyone who would listen that once he was famous, that wall was gonna be worth a fucking fortune. Ivan had calmed the manager down somehow and the signature stayed; just seeing it was enough to make Till turn red down to his bones.
Now, though, he’s grateful for it - it means only twenty minutes later, Till’s storming his way inside Mag’s and grabbing Ivan by the back of his shirt.
“You made it,” Ivan says in greeting, like he’d sent out a formal invitation. Maybe that’s what the picture was, a mindfuck game instead of a come have a beer with me. There’s some other people at the table but it’s no one Till has to be polite to so he just yanks on Ivan until Ivan stands up. One of the buttons on Ivan’s dress shirt pops off from the force, hitting Ivan’s glass with a soft tink on the way down.
Till drags Ivan off to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind them. Ivan raises an eyebrow but says nothing. It’s not the first time Till’s dragged Ivan off to a bathroom to hash things out. Insanity is doing the same thing, et fucking cetera.
“Take it off,” Till snaps.
Ivan coyly reaches up to touch the open neck of his shirt where the button came loose.
“The belt, the belt,” Till screeches, and Ivan sighs, reaching for the buckle. Slowly, sensuously, he undoes the notch, sliding the length through, loosening it inch by inch. Till puts up with it for all of ten seconds, then shoves Ivan over to sit on the toilet. Till yanks on the belt so hard he hears at least one of the loops rip through. He stands over Ivan with the belt in his hands. For some reason, he’s shaking.
“Quit fucking with me. Okay? I’ve put up with a lot from you because we knew each other so long but I swear to God if you don’t stop being so fucking weird, I’ll kill you.”
“Weird,” Ivan echoes, ignoring the threat. “What exactly is it that I’ve done?”
Till brandishes the belt.
“I found it among my belongings after all,” Ivan lies smoothly. “I was in a hurry and wore it by mistake today. I mean to give it back next shift.”
“You are such a fucking liar,” Till hisses.
“Am I?” Ivan’s eyes are darker than usual, looking up at Till. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what I did with it, then?”
“Nothing,” Till says sarcastically, meaning nothing I can prove, but the intense way Ivan stares without blinking gives him pause. He rewinds a little. Lets it run forward.
“Nothing,” Till says again, leaning a little closer. “You put on a show but you’re too chicken shit to actually do it.”
“Do what, in your expert opinion?” Ivan asks. He’s well on his way to a scathing diatribe about Till’s twisted virginal imaginings when Till loops the belt around the back of Ivan’s neck. Abruptly, Ivan stops talking. Or breathing.
Slowly, Till brings the ends of the belt together, slipping it through the buckle and drawing it through. He stops when the buckle lightly touches Ivan’s throat. Then, Till pulls taut.
The first pull is brief but firm. It hardly constricts Ivan’s airways, more of a press than a choke. When Till lets the belt slack, Ivan’s inhalation is too brief and ragged in response. Ivan has both hands tightly gripping his own thighs, perfectly still.
The second time he chokes Ivan with the belt, Till pulls harder. The metal buckle sinks slightly into Ivan’s skin, leaving an imprint. An ugly red flush rises to Ivan’s perfect, pretty, pale face. Unconsciously, Till shifts closer, almost straddling Ivan’s thigh. He’s hard; they both are.
The third time, Ivan’s hands fumble with his open pants even as he leans forward, pulled nearly off his seat. The soft slick rhythmic sounds of masturbation fill the tiny room; Ivan jerks himself off with short, quick, powerful movements while Till strangles him. Now and again, Till lets it loose to hear Ivan fight to breathe, keeping his eyes on Ivan’s face even as he grinds his erection against Ivan’s leg like a dog in heat.
“You’re sick,” Till says with contempt, pulling the belt so hard that Ivan’s eyes go wide and bloodshot, unsure which one of them he’s talking to. Ivan lets out a wheeze of whatever air was left inside his lungs and spasms, coughing when there’s nothing to expel or draw in as he comes wetly between them.
Till lets go of the belt and steps back.
Ivan has one elbow propped against the wall, legs splayed wide. His pants are open but barely down, now covered with the obvious signs of orgasm, splattering up against the dark fabric of his expensive shirt. He’s slumped over, perfect posture forgotten for once as he looks up at Till with eyes so doe like, so dew wet in their sweetness that if Till stays he will do something crazy - bash Ivan’s head against the sink, gouge his eyes out with Till’s bare hands, kiss him and fall in love, so Till turns around and leaves him there.