Chapter 1: The First Spark
Summary:
His idol. His obsession. The reason he was here.
On the cover, the man was a vision of dark, rebellious perfection. He wore a fitted burgundy jacket with sharp white trim, layered over a dull colored tied dye shirt that seemed to expose something both grotesque and alluring. Slim black pants, clinking with chains and charms, hung just right against his long legs, ending in heavy combat boots. The gothic-punk aesthetic was striking, theatrical, and yet effortless on him. Like second skin.
Till’s eyes traced every line, every chain, the glint of the boots, the way the jacket caught the light. He drank it in with the silent hunger of someone who had stared at a photograph a thousand times but still wasn’t satisfied.
It wasn’t just fashion. It was art.
And maybe, deep down, it was something else, too… something he would never say aloud.
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Till hadn’t wanted to go that night.
Mizi had begged him, pulling at his sleeve, dragging him out into the crisp Seoul evening like she always did when she had some scheme. They were still teenagers back then… barely old enough to sneak into a club, let alone into the kind of event she had promised him. A fashion show.
“It’ll change your life, you’ll see,” she’d whispered, green eyes glinting with mischief as they slipped into the venue.
The room was buzzing: music vibrating through the floorboards, lights flashing, cameras clicking in relentless bursts. Till had never seen so many beautiful people in one place, all hair slicked back or sculpted into wild shapes, eyes smudged with eyeliner, outfits screaming with rebellion and daring.
But then the world shifted.
The moment the next model stepped out onto the runway, he forgot to breathe.
He was tall, striking, a living embodiment of punk elegance. His black leather jacket glinted under the spotlights, trimmed in deep crimson that seemed to drip like blood at the edges. Chains clinked at his side, and his boots struck the runway with a rhythm that drowned out everything else. He moved with confidence sharp enough to cut: half predator, half god.
The crowd roared.
Till sat frozen, eyes wide, chest tight. Now…he wasn’t just looking at the fashion. He was looking at him.
I.V.
That name would be whispered everywhere that night, repeated in awe, in gossip, in hunger. The newest sensation. A model who didn’t just wear fashion… he transformed it, owned it, consumed it, made it into something more than fabric and stitches. Punk wasn’t just clothing on him. It was alive.
Till’s fingers curled around his knees. His heart pounded as he watched the man stalk down the runway, head high, onyx eyes sharp, the whole room bending to his gravity. And in that exact moment, something in him shifted.
He wanted this.
No… not the fame, not the roar of the cameras. He wanted to create. To design something bold enough, wild enough, alive enough, that even this man… even I.V himself would wear.
That was the night the spark was lit. The night he promised himself he’d find a way to put his mark on the world of fashion, no matter what it cost him.
And that spark never went out.
⸻
Years later, it was still burning.
The glossy pages of the magazine trembled ever so slightly in his hands as he flipped to the cover again. He sat at his desk in the classroom, the muted murmur of other students filling the air like static, but all he saw was the man on the page.
I.V.
His idol. His obsession. The reason he was here.
On the cover, the man was a vision of dark, rebellious perfection. He wore a fitted burgundy jacket with sharp white trim, layered over a dull colored tied dye shirt that seemed to expose something both grotesque and alluring. Slim black pants, clinking with chains and charms, hung just right against his long legs, ending in heavy combat boots. The gothic-punk aesthetic was striking, theatrical, and yet effortless on him. Like second skin.
Till’s eyes traced every line, every chain, the glint of the boots, the way the jacket caught the light. He drank it in with the silent hunger of someone who had stared at a photograph a thousand times but still wasn’t satisfied.
It wasn’t just fashion. It was art.
And maybe, deep down, it was something else, too… something he would never say aloud.
A shadow fell across his desk.
“Are you… a fan?”
The voice belonged to one of his classmates: a tall woman with blonde hair and sharp, nosy eyes. She leaned over, glancing at the open magazine in his hands.
Till’s spine straightened immediately. In one practiced motion, his face shifted into an expression of cool indifference.
“No.” His voice was clipped, steady. “I don’t care about models.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. He went on before she could ask anything further.
“I admire the clothes. The way the outfit is styled. That’s all that matters.”
For a moment, silence lingered between them. Then the woman hummed, unconvinced, and walked away.
Only when the footsteps faded did he allow his mask to slip. His lips pressed together tightly, his thumb brushing once more across the edge of the magazine page.
He couldn’t let anyone know. Not here.
This was the top fashion school in the country. A place where ambition cut sharper than any blade. Here, classmates weren’t friends. They were competition. Rivals. Enemies dressed in polite smiles, waiting for you to slip so they could step over you.
He had learned quickly that opening up was a mistake. His passion, his dreams, his obsession… they were his fuel, and he would keep them locked deep inside. Because the only thing that mattered was the goal: becoming a designer whose work could stand on that runway.
And one day… one day, his idol: I.V himself… would wear his clothes.
That thought alone made his chest ache.
Across the room, laughter rose. A cluster of students had gathered near the window, their voices carrying easily.
“Don’t you think he’s weird?” one of them whispered… not quietly enough.
“The punk fashion, the piercings… he always looks so stock up. So cold.”
“Yeah, he never talks to anyone. Just sits there sketching.”
Till’s jaw tightened, though his eyes never left the magazine. He didn’t need to look to know they were talking about him.
Cold. Weird. Brat.
He’d heard it all before. And maybe it was true: his clothes were different, his style darker, sharper than the pastel and minimalist designs that filled most of their sketchbooks. He wore his armor openly: black nails, metal glinting from his ears, eyebrow, lip. A warning sign that kept others at a distance. Exactly as he wanted it.
But still, the words burrowed under his skin, familiar wounds he told himself he no longer felt.
From the far back of the classroom, a pair of onyx eyes lingered.
Hidden beneath the shadow of a bucket hat, the figure leaned forward in his chair. Curly raven hair peeked from beneath the brim, obscuring most of his face. He sat slouched, quiet, unnoticed by most. But he noticed.
He watched as the whispers darted like knives toward Till. Watched the way Till’s shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, even though his expression never cracked.
Something unreadable flickered across the hidden figure’s face. Then he dropped his gaze, saying nothing.
The door opened with a sharp creak.
The professor strode in, setting her leather satchel on the desk with a heavy thud. At once, the chatter died down, students scrambling back to their seats.
“Listen carefully,” the professor began, her tone clipped but carrying weight. “I have important news.”
The silence was instant, heavy with anticipation.
“Our school has been chosen to participate in the prestigious Vogue Visionaries competition. Three months from now, we will host a runway show judged by professionals from the industry. Designers, editors, scouts. A career-defining opportunity.”
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the classroom. Till’s pulse quickened, his eyes snapping up from the magazine.
The professor’s voice sharpened, slicing through the whispers.
“The prize will go to the student whose design is chosen as the winner. That student will be offered multiple opportunities to work alongside professional designers. Their name will be noticed, remembered. And…”
She paused for effect, eyes scanning the eager faces before her.
“…their winning outfit will be worn at a red-carpet event, later this year.”
The air buzzed with excitement, disbelief, hunger.
But then the professor added the final spark that turned the room into a storm.
“And the model chosen to wear it is none other than the world-famous, I.V.”
For a moment, the silver-head man thought he had misheard.
The words echoed, slow and heavy, sinking into him with the force of destiny. His breath caught in his throat.
I.V.
I.V.
The man on the magazine cover. The one who had changed everything for him. The unreachable star.
And now… his future was no longer just a dream. It was within reach.
Till’s hands clenched into fists atop his desk. His heart pounded, fierce and unstoppable.
This was it.
This was the chance he had been waiting for all his life.
He would not waste it.
He would win.
No matter what it took.
No matter who stood in his way.
No matter the cost.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Chapter 2: Unwanted Pair
Summary:
“You don’t have a partner either, huh?”
Till’s head snapped toward the source, and his eyes fell on a figure standing a little away from where he sat. The man was dressed in an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed his frame and baggy sweatpants that looked like they had been chosen for comfort rather than style. A bucket hat sat low over messy curls of raven-black hair, partially obscuring his face. For a moment, he thought the man had wandered into the wrong school entirely.
He let out a long, exaggerated sigh that carried just enough frustration to make the whole class turn and glance at him.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The classroom was a flurry of murmurs, the sound of pencils scratching on paper, and the occasional thud of a ruler against the edge of a desk. Till still had his heart hammering from the announcement. His dream… the chance to see I.V wearing his designs, had just been dangled in front of him like a star he could almost touch.
And then, just as he was letting the possibility sink in, the professor added a detail that shattered the fragile bubble of hope he had been building.
“Now,” the woman stated, pacing slowly across the front of the classroom, “there is one final twist.”
His pulse skipped a beat. His chest tightened.
“The competition will not be done individually. You will work in pairs. I leave the choosing to you. Please give me a list of your pairs by the end of today.”
A chorus of groans and excited chatter erupted around him. Some students leaned over to whisper to each other. Others tried to make quick alliances, hands shooting up to volunteer or declare pre-existing partnerships.
Till felt his stomach drop.
Pairs.
Pairs meant friendship. Pairs meant cooperation. Pairs meant compromise.
And Till had no friends here.
He was cold, distant, too different, too… sharp for anyone to willingly approach him. The punk aesthetic, the constant focus on his sketches, the way he didn’t care for gossip or camaraderie… all of it had erected walls he didn’t intend to tear down.
The panic clawed at him. He couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity. He had to win. But how could he win if he had to pair with someone? Someone whose ideas might ruin his vision, someone whose touch might smear his designs, someone… human?
His hands curled into fists beneath the desk.
And then a quiet voice broke through the chaos.
“You don’t have a partner either, huh?”
Till’s head snapped toward the source, and his eyes fell on a figure standing a little away from where he sat. The man was dressed in an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed his frame and baggy sweatpants that looked like they had been chosen for comfort rather than style. A bucket hat sat low over messy curls of raven-black hair, partially obscuring his face. For a moment, he thought the man had wandered into the wrong school entirely.
He let out a long, exaggerated sigh that carried just enough frustration to make the whole class turn and glance at him.
“Do I… have to?” he asked, voice tight but steady, as he turned to the professor. “Can’t I just work alone?”
The professor shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line. “Individual work is not allowed. Pair work is part of the competition. You will be learning collaboration as well as design. You cannot work alone, Till.”
He clenched his teeth, willing the world to shift beneath him so that he could disappear. There was no escape. He had no choice.
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to face the figure who now stood directly beside his seat, the figure who had just stated the obvious.
The man straightened slightly, revealing more of his disheveled appearance. “So… I guess we’re partners,” he stated casually, shrugging as if this was a minor inconvenience rather than the start of Till’s nightmare.
His lips pressed into a thin line. He inhaled through his nose, steadying himself, and forced a calm, almost indifferent tone. “Fine. What’s your name?”
The man’s eyes flicked up at him, one brow arching in amusement. “Kinda weird you don’t know your own classmates’ name,” he said, voice easy, teasing even. “We’ve been in the same class for an entire year.”
Till didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to make friends. Names seemed pointless.”
For a moment, the figure stared at him, one corner of his mouth quirking into a faint smirk. “Fair enough. I’m Ivan.”
Till hummed in acknowledgment. He let the name sit in his mind without comment. Not that it mattered. Names didn’t matter. Success did.
He shifted his attention to the only thing that had ever mattered: his sketches. He tilted his head slightly, glancing at the sketchbook Ivan had been holding close to his chest. “Let me see your sketches,” he stated, voice clipped.
The man raised an eyebrow but handed over the book without protest. Till flipped it open carefully, his eyes scanning the pages.
And immediately, his stomach twisted.
The drawings were… awful. Childish. Lines wobbly and uneven, perspectives wonky, proportions completely off. There were no shading details, no textures, nothing resembling design coherence. Some of the sketches looked like a kindergartner’s doodles of humans. Till’s jaw tightened, and without a word, he snapped the book shut and handed it back to Ivan.
The raven-head blinked, a faint smirk still lingering. “Okay,” he said softly, almost amused, as if the other’s reaction had been expected.
Till ignored the amusement, voice cool and firm. “We’ll work on the design using my sketches.”
Ivan’s brow rose, curiosity flickering through his dark eyes. “Show me yours, then.”
Till hesitated just for a fraction of a second. He had never shown anyone his personal sketchbook. Not a single soul. Not even Mizi. It was sacred, private, filled with his obsession, his dreams, his art. And now, with the tension of a looming competition, he wasn’t sure he could reveal even a hint of the fire he held inside.
But in the rush of motion, he grabbed the nearest sketchbook without thinking. It was the wrong one.
He handed it over.
Ivan’s fingers brushed the cover. He tilted the book, eyes widening as he began to flip the pages.
Till froze. His blood ran cold. His personal sketches…. his secret sketches of I.V wearing his designs… were being exposed. No, no, no… he thought frantically.
Just as Ivan’s thumb hovered over the next page, he snatched the book back, heart hammering. His hands were trembling slightly as he forced a strained, almost forced calm. “Here,” he said, shoving a different sketchbook toward him. “This one has more suitable designs.”
Ivan looked slightly confused, but the curiosity didn’t leave his eyes. He opened the correct book and began flipping through the sketches.
Till exhaled quietly, though the tremor in his chest didn’t fade entirely. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, pretending he wasn’t internally panicking over what might have been seen.
But then a sound: a soft, impressed whistle… made him snap his head back.
The raven-head’s eyes were wide, a slow grin spreading across his face. “These… these are amazing,” he murmured, tilting the book closer to examine the details. “They’re… all punk?”
Till didn’t answer immediately. His hand rested lightly on his personal book, almost possessively. “Yes,” he muttered finally, tone flat but with an undercurrent of pride. “I’ve always worked with punk. It’s… it’s my style. My perspective. And it’s how I see fashion. Every line, every chain, every detail… everything matters.”
Ivan nodded slowly, as if absorbing every word, flipping through the sketches again. “I see… yeah, it’s intense. Raw, bold… and alive. Like you could just throw it on a real person and they’d be the design.”
Till’s heart skipped a beat. That… that was exactly what he had been going for. The raw energy of a person embodying the design. He had dreamt of I.V wearing these outfits, walking into a world that had always seemed just out of reach. And now, in this room, across a simple sketchbook, someone else… someone as unlikely as Ivan… was acknowledging the vision.
For the first time since the announcement, he felt a flicker of… possibility.
But the doubt remained. The other was messy, unfashionable, casual to the point of irreverence. Could someone like him… someone who clearly didn’t belong in the same league… actually contribute meaningfully to the project?
He studied the taller man as he looked up, the messy curls falling from beneath the bucket hat, the slight smile that suggested genuine interest rather than judgment. There was a quiet confidence there, beneath the casual, disheveled exterior. It was subtle, easy to miss. But it was there.
Till felt a begrudging recognition that perhaps this wouldn’t be as simple as he feared.
“We’ll use my sketches for now,” he stated again, tone clipped, hiding any flicker of uncertainty. “But you can create your own sketches later on so we can use some of your ideas.”
Ivan’s grin widened, not mocking, not dismissive. “Fair enough. I can do that.”
Till let the statement hang, unsure if he meant it or not. His chest tightened again, but this time with something more complex than panic. There was tension, yes, and frustration. But also… curiosity.
He didn’t want to admit it yet. Not to himself, and certainly not to Ivan. But for the first time, he was beginning to sense that this partnership, unwelcome as it was, might become… interesting.
And perhaps, just perhaps, it might be the first step toward seeing his dream realized.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I’ll see you in the next chapter update <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 3: Threads of Understanding
Summary:
The silence that followed was tense, broken only by the faint scuff of the man’s hands fumbling with the thread. The other glanced over after a few minutes and saw, with growing horror, that Ivan had somehow managed to prick his finger… not once, but twice. A thin line of blood began to bead on the skin, and he hissed under his breath.
Till’s eyes widened. “You! Ugh…let me see.”
The raven-head held up his hand, showing crimson beads on the fingertip. “It’s fine,” he responded, voice calm, though a faint grimace betrayed him.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The first day of working together was, by all reasonable accounts, a disaster.
Till had arrived at the workshop studio bright and early, armed with his meticulously organized sketchbooks, a folder of fabric sheets, a variety of pens and pencils, and a precise list of materials he would need to complete the first part of their project: the concept. He had planned to attack the day with surgical precision: every minute accounted for, every step perfectly calculated.
Ivan, on the other hand, arrived thirty minutes late, disheveled as usual, wearing an oversized hoodie that seemed determined to swallow him whole and sweatpants that had seen better days. His bucket hat sat crooked atop his curls, one side drooping in lazy defiance. In his hands was a tiny, flimsy sewing kit.
Till’s stomach sank.
He forced a neutral expression, masking his immediate urge to groan. “We’re starting with sewing techniques, then,” he said, gesturing to the worktable with all the fabric laid out. “You can… start threading the needle while I begin cutting the fabric into squares.”
Ivan tilted his head, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Sure.”
The silence that followed was tense, broken only by the faint scuff of the man’s hands fumbling with the thread. The other glanced over after a few minutes and saw, with growing horror, that Ivan had somehow managed to prick his finger… not once, but twice. A thin line of blood began to bead on the skin, and he hissed under his breath.
Till’s eyes widened. “You! Ugh…let me see.”
The raven-head held up his hand, showing crimson beads on the fingertip. “It’s fine,” he responded, voice calm, though a faint grimace betrayed him.
“Fine?” The smaller man echoed, exasperation already threading through his words. He grabbed a tissue from the side, on the table and pressed it gently against the wound. “This isn’t fine. You’re going to get an infection if you keep stabbing yourself like that.”
The man chuckled nervously. “I’m… not very good with my hands. I guess I’m… clumsy.”
Till sighed, reaching for a band-aid from his bag. “Clumsy doesn’t cut it when you’re handling needles. Here.” He carefully cleaned the cut, dabbing until the bleeding stopped, then wrapped the bandage neatly over the small injury. “There. Next time, you’re sourcing materials instead of trying to sew by hand.”
Ivan stared at him, wide-eyed for a moment, then gave a sheepish nod. “Right… I can do that.”
The smaller man rolled his eyes but allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. At least something was going right today.
He returned to his own work, cutting carefully along the lines of the fabric he had meticulously traced. The scissors glided over the fabric with a satisfying swish, the smell of fresh cloth and ink filling the small workspace. It was peaceful… methodical. He had always found a strange kind of comfort in the repetition, in the control of shaping raw material into something meaningful.
After a few minutes, Ivan’s voice broke the silence.
“Hey,” he began hesitantly, “why… why fashion? Why did you choose to study it?”
Till paused, scissors hovering above the fabric. He didn’t answer immediately, not because he didn’t want to, but because he wasn’t used to speaking aloud the heart of his obsession. It was private, sacred. “I… I’ve always wanted to make something that matters,” he said finally, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Something that can exist beyond just being worn.”
The other hummed in acknowledgment, leaning slightly against the table. “And the punk aesthetic… why that specifically? It’s not exactly subtle.”
The silver-head’s hands stilled, the scissors pressing lightly against the fabric. For a moment, he considered deflecting the question with a curt shrug or a vague statement about personal taste. But there was something about Ivan’s presence: easy, curious, unassuming… that made him pause. He had been staring at him for a while, measuring the man’s quiet attention, the tilt of his head, the way his dark eyes seemed genuinely interested.
Finally, he spoke, voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Because… I want to see someone I admire wear my designs. That’s why I started fashion in the first place.”
There was a brief silence. The raven-head blinked, his expression unreadable for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, processing his words. “You… mean like someone famous?” he asked cautiously.
Till nodded. “Yes. Someone whose work, whose presence… inspires me. Someone I respect and admire. And if they wore my clothes, it would… it would be proof that I’m on the right path. That I can do this.” His gaze flicked down to the fabric in his hands, brushing over the lines he had traced so carefully. “That… that’s why I do it. That’s why punk. It’s bold, it’s… unapologetic. It stands out. It commands attention.”
Ivan’s eyes softened, and for the first time, Till noticed a certain warmth in them, a subtle spark of understanding. “I get that,” he said quietly. “I think… I get it.”
The silver-headed man looked up sharply, surprised. “You… you do?”
He nodded slowly, then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean… I don’t have the talent to design like you. I can barely thread a needle without pricking myself.” He held up his bandaged finger as if to demonstrate. “But… I’ve always liked fashion. Not because I want to be seen, or famous, or anything like that. I… I just want to make clothes that… help people. Give them courage. Confidence. Something that lets them face their troubles without feeling like the world is against them.”
Till’s breath caught. He froze mid-cut, scissors paused, as he stared at the man in disbelief. “Wait… you’re saying… you want your clothes to… to help people?”
Ivan shrugged, casual but sincere. “Yeah. Even if I can’t design perfectly, I want someone who wears the clothes to feel… stronger. Like they can deal with whatever life throws at them. That’s… that’s why I like fashion.”
Till blinked, heart pounding. His fingers itched to continue cutting, but he set the scissors down and sat back slightly. The words lingered in the air, heavy, surprising, and inspiring. It was a reason he had never heard before… a reason unselfish, pure, human. Not about fame, not about idols, not about being seen. But about touching someone else’s life, in the smallest, most intimate way.
“That… that’s… actually really good,” he muttered, voice low, almost reverent. “That’s… a really great reason to like fashion. I… I never thought of it that way.”
The raven-head tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Most people don’t. They just want to be noticed. But… some things matter more than that.”
Till felt something stir inside him: a mix of admiration, inspiration, and a quiet sense of camaraderie he hadn’t experienced in forever. Here was someone different, someone who might never be a great designer on paper, but whose perspective was… unexpectedly profound.
He picked up his scissors again, cutting with renewed energy, a new spark feeding his determination. “Alright,” he said, voice firmer, more focused. “If we’re going to make this work, we need to be smart about it. We’re each doing our own concepts for the time being but we’re working together to finalize it. Therefore, you… source the materials. I’ll handle the cutting, and sewing… for the fabric testers. Then we’ll figure out how to combine our strengths.”
Ivan nodded, leaning forward slightly, his onyx eyes glinting with interest. “Sounds fair. And… I can help with additional ideas. Color combinations. Accessories. You know… brainstorming.”
The other allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. “That… works. I’ll need your input, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the core design. Can you do that?”
Ivan tilted his head, smile widening slightly. “I think I can manage. But only if you don’t get too bossy.”
Till’s smile faded into a thin line as he let out a light scoff. “Noted.”
The day continued, slow but productive. Ivan’s clumsiness meant he couldn’t physically contribute much, but his insights: his observations about texture, color, and mood… proved to be surprisingly intuitive. Till began to realize that there was a method behind the apparent chaos, a depth to the casual, distracted way the man approached the world.
As they worked, they talked. Not forced conversation, but casual, the kind that grew naturally when two people begin to understand each other. Ivan asked about the details of Till’s punk inspirations, about his favorite designers, the memories that shaped his obsession. Till, in turn, asked Ivan about his own life, about why he seemed so different from the other students, why he didn’t just blend in and follow the expected path.
With each exchange, the smaller man felt the walls around him soften just slightly. The rigidity he had built to survive in this competitive environment began to relax, if only a little, as he realized that the other wasn’t here to compete with him. He wasn’t here to undermine him.
He was… here to understand.
And in a small, quiet corner of Till’s chest, a spark of something new began to burn. Something unfamiliar, something thrilling, something that promised that this partnership… unwanted as it had seemed… might just lead him closer to the dream he had been chasing for so long.
By the end of the first day, each of their patterns was laid, the base fabrics cut, and their concepts solidifying. Till leaned back in his chair, exhausted but invigorated. Ivan sat across from him, fiddling with a small fabric swatch, his messy curls falling into his eyes.
The silver-head allowed himself a rare, small smile. “Not bad for a first day.”
Ivan looked up, one eyebrow quirked. “Not bad at all. We might just make this work, after all.”
Till’s chest tightened… not from frustration this time, but from something warmer, something that hinted at possibilities he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine.
Perhaps, against all odds, they could.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Hey guys, I am currently unwell from the flu so I apologize for having a random posting schedule with this fic… I am trying my best to post as frequently as possible so please be understanding <3
I’ll see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow. If I don’t post tmr then it means I am unable to do so as I’ll be resting to recover.
Until then, have a wonderful day/night and please be safe and take care wherever you are <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 4: Collision with the Idol
Summary:
His train of thought was interrupted by the shrill ping of his phone. Instinctively, his eyes flicked to the screen.
A new Instagram story notification: @I.V_official ✓⃝
He froze, heart hammering so violently he feared the neighbors might hear it. He clicked it immediately.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Till’s apartment was a shrine.
The door creaked as he stepped in, the familiar scent of leather, incense, and faintly burnt candles greeting him like an old friend. Posters of I.V adorned the walls: some captured in the midst of runway struts, hair cascading in rebellion, jackets dripping with chains and attitude; others were close-ups, eyes smoldering, lips slightly parted, rings glinting under the lights of a photoshoot. Magazine covers lined one corner of the room, stacked neatly, all featuring his idol. Some of the rare imported editions were pressed into a display frame, each one showing a different persona of I.V: gothic punk, street-chic, high couture.
On his desk lay an array of sketches: meticulous, punk-inspired, daring. A few pins and fabric swatches were scattered around, all carefully chosen to reflect a vision that Till nurtured with obsessive precision. Even his clothing reflected the aesthetic: black baggy jeans peppered with zippers and chains, shirts with skeleton prints or bold graphics, boots polished to a near-mirror sheen. Every detail, from his painted nails to the small collection of silver piercings along his ears, eyebrow, and lip, whispered of devotion to a style and a dream.
He sank into his chair, loosening his choker, eyes wandering over the organized chaos. It was comforting, this room… his fortress, his haven, the place where he could be fully himself and fully obsessed with his ultimate goal.
And today, he thought, had been… complicated.
He leaned back, sketchbook still open in front of him, and ran a hand over his face. The day with Ivan kept replaying in his mind.
He had wanted to work alone. He still believed that. One extra pair of hands could only complicate matters, and he had braced himself for disaster when he had first realized they were going to be partners. Ivan’s clumsiness: pricking his finger with a needle, fumbling with the scissors… had only reinforced that fear.
But… as he thought back on it, he realized the truth: one extra pair of hands, even a clumsy one, had done him justice. Even if the work wasn’t perfect, having someone else think with him, offer suggestions, and participate… somehow it had made the process less lonely. Less suffocating.
Till shook his head and let out a breath. He wasn’t going to admit it out loud, of course. Not even to Mizi. But quietly, in the privacy of his sanctuary, he allowed a small acknowledgment: Ivan, despite everything, had been… useful.
His train of thought was interrupted by the shrill ping of his phone. Instinctively, his eyes flicked to the screen.
A new Instagram story notification: @I.V_official ✓⃝
He froze, heart hammering so violently he feared the neighbors might hear it. He clicked it immediately.
The image filled his screen: a hand, slender and elegant, adorned with several silver rings, fingers tipped with polished nails. A peace sign. That was all. But it was enough. Just the hand alone radiated the same magnetic charisma that Till had worshipped for years. The subtle curve of the wrist, the graceful movement, even the faint smudge of leather from a jacket sleeve brushing against the skin… it was unmistakable.
His lips parted. His breath caught in his throat. Cool. So impossibly cool… even just the hand. His heart surged.
And then his gaze flicked to the background.
Graffiti. Bright, rebellious, chaotic. A signature scrawl that was unmistakable. He blinked, narrowed his eyes, and leaned closer.
He knew that mark.
His pulse quickened as recognition hit him. That graffiti… it wasn’t just anywhere. He had seen it before, just minutes from his apartment. A bar: small, grungy, tucked away in a side street… ten minutes by foot.
Without a second thought, he shoved the phone into his pocket, grabbed his leather jacket, and bolted from his apartment. Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins, he ran through the streets of Seoul, weaving between pedestrians, ignoring honks and shouts. The city blurred around him. All that mattered was the image burned into his mind: I.V. and that graffiti.
The bar came into view, low brick walls covered in murals, flickering neon lighting painting the entrance in shades of pink and blue. The smell of fried food and beer mingled with the distant hum of music. Till skidded to a stop in front of the door, trying to calm his racing heart.
He pushed inside.
The place was dim, crowded with patrons. A low bass line thumped through the floor. His teal eyes darted across the room. He scanned every shadow, every corner, every table.
His idol wasn’t there.
His chest sank a little, disappointment weighing on him, but determination kept him moving. He made his way to the bar and clumsily ordered a drink, keeping his eyes peeled, scanning every movement.
Minutes passed. Music pulsed. The hum of conversation filled the air. Till was just starting to consider leaving when a group of men at a nearby table took notice of him.
“Hey there, pretty thing,” one leered, eyes sliding over him like he was prey. “You look too… delicate to be out alone.”
Another reached toward him, smirk on his face, before he could step back.
“Hey! hands off,” he stated, stepping away instinctively, tension coiling in his chest.
The men clearly appreciated the gesture because one of them grabbed his hand harshly, pulling him close.
Till squirmed.
“Y-Yah! Get the fuck off!”
But before the man could make another move, a large, commanding hand shot out from behind him, gripping the man’s wrist and stopping him cold.
He froze, turning toward the source.
And then he saw him.
I.V.
The model, the idol, the living embodiment of everything he had ever dreamed of.
Standing right beside him, leather jacket catching the neon light, asymmetrical shirt clinging perfectly beneath, charcoal cargo pants adorned with silver chains and buckles, boots that made him tower over the crowd, and long raven hair with streaks of crimson cascading in wild defiance. Several piercings glimmered on his ears and face, and his fingers: adorned with rings… still radiated the same allure as the hand in the Instagram story. The scent that wafted toward Till: smoky, sharp, intoxicating… hit him like a physical blow.
I.V’s gaze, sharp and piercing, sliced across the men at the bar, his voice low and dangerous. “Scram.”
The men muttered curses under their breath and scurried away, leaving the space between him and his role model charged with tension.
Till felt as though he could combust.
Every muscle in his body stiffened. His heart hammered so hard he could hear it in his ears. The world seemed to tilt, colors heightened, sounds sharpened. His idol… right in front of him: alive, breathing, and exuding charisma in a way no magazine or runway photo could ever capture.
I.V’s eyes flicked toward him, dark and enigmatic, and for a moment the noise of the bar seemed to vanish entirely. It was just him… and Till.
The smaller man’s lips parted. He wanted to speak, but no words would come. All he could do was stare, trapped in a mix of awe, terror, and something more dangerous: desire.
The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of the model’s mouth, as though he could sense the storm raging inside him without a single word exchanged. He leaned slightly forward, resting one hand on the bar, rings catching the flickering lights. “Nice evening, huh?,” he spoke, voice smooth and intoxicating.
Till’s brain short-circuited. He could barely comprehend the words. He nodded weakly, as if that small gesture could somehow anchor him to reality.
I.V tilted his head, eyes scanning the other from head to toe, taking in the painted nails, the black baggy jeans, the leather bracelets. He didn’t flinch, didn’t mock… just studied him, as if cataloging him in the same meticulous way he had studied I.V for years.
Till’s knees threatened to give way. He could feel the heat rising in his face, his ears burning, his stomach churning with nerves and excitement. His heart was a runaway train. He hadn’t dreamed of a moment like this to occur. But now… it was happening.
I.V leaned a little closer, enough that the faint leather scent and faint smoke mingled with his senses, overwhelming him. “Are you… okay?” he asked, voice low, teasing but with a sharp edge, like a warning and an invitation all at once.
Till could only swallow, his hands clenching the edge of the bar as if holding on for survival. He wanted to say something clever, something that would impress. But all that escaped was a breathless, “Y-yeah…”
I.V’s smirk widened, dark and predatory. “Good. Because I think this is going to be… interesting.”
Till’s chest tightened, because for the first time in his life, he felt truly powerless… not because he was weak, but because the object of all his obsession, all his dreams, all his carefully nurtured plans, was a mere feet away, alive, aware, and utterly intoxicating.
He felt like he might die right there.
And yet… he couldn’t move.
Not because he was afraid. Not because he wanted to flee.
Because he didn’t want to.
He wanted… more.
The bar, the neon lights, the hum of music, the faint smell of smoke and alcohol… they all faded into the background. All that existed was I.V.
And Till, finally, fully, completely consumed by the reality of seeing his idol in the flesh.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I’ll see you in the next chapter.
Let me know what you think of the story progress so far :)
Until then, keep safe and take care <3
Ps: I am feeling better today so I’m hoping I recover :/
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 5: Smoke and Stammered Confessions
Summary:
(God, he’s hot. Too hot. I’m going to combust. This is illegal levels of hot.)
Till dragged his gaze away, but it was too late… he’d already been caught staring.
I.V. smirked, one brow arched as he exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately. The silver rings glinted as he tapped ash into the tray. “Something on your mind?”
Notes:
Hey guys, i am getting trouble to upload the image here but below I will attach a link to show a reference of how different I.V. and Ivan looks in case some of you are confused on why Till hasn’t figured it out that they are the same person. The link I added will show the character from the manga I’ve inspired this fic on, on whom I wrote Ivan/ I.V. based on.
Ps: in the fic you will see I.V. and I.V
They’re both correct… I just couldn’t decided which one I liked more so I added both <3
https://x.com/Michiyo_00/status/1982411626411356601/photo/1
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The air between them was electric.
Till still couldn’t believe he was breathing the same air as I.V… the man who had inspired him, haunted his dreams, and driven his every sketch and stitch for years. His idol wasn’t on a glowing runway or a glossy magazine cover. He was here. Flesh, blood, leather, smoke, and all.
“Sit,” the man said, voice smooth and authoritative, as though he expected to be obeyed.
Till, jittery and trembling, obeyed without question. His knees bent too fast and he nearly stumbled onto the barstool, catching himself at the last second. His hands gripped his knees beneath the counter to stop them from shaking. His chest burned with the effort of keeping his breaths even.
I.V. motioned to the bartender with a flick of his fingers. “Water. Cold.”
Moments later, a bottle was placed before Till. I.V. twisted the cap open himself and pressed it into his hands.
“Drink.”
He accepted it like it was holy, fingers brushing against the other for a split second. His stomach swooped violently. He gulped down the water, too fast, too desperate, half-choking in the process. His idol watching him only made it worse. He slammed the bottle down, coughing lightly, cheeks flaming.
I.V. settled onto the stool beside him, casual, relaxed… like he belonged everywhere, like the world bent to accommodate him. From his pocket he retrieved a sleek cigarette pack, tapping one out with languid ease. A lighter flicked. A soft flame glowed. He placed the cigarette between his lips and inhaled, smoke curling into the dimly lit air.
Till stared. He couldn’t stop himself.
The way I.V.’s fingers… adorned with silver rings, curved around the cigarette. The way the ember glowed faintly, illuminating his sharp jawline, his impossibly smooth skin. Even in this grungy bar, under neon lights that made most people look sickly, his complexion glowed, flawless and almost unreal. His long raven hair with crimson streaks framed his face, catching the light with a rebellious sheen.
(God, he’s hot. Too hot. I’m going to combust. This is illegal levels of hot.)
Till dragged his gaze away, but it was too late… he’d already been caught staring.
I.V. smirked, one brow arched as he exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately. The silver rings glinted as he tapped ash into the tray. “Something on your mind?”
The smaller man’s face erupted into fire. He coughed again, cleared his throat, then blurted far too quickly: “Are you… I mean… you’re I.V, right? The model, by chance?”
(Smooth. Very smooth.)
Said man hummed, leaning back slightly. “By chance, yes.”
His dark eyes glimmered with amusement as he tilted his head. “Are you a fan of mine?”
Till’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His head shook side to side rapidly, then immediately snapped into vigorous nodding. “N-no—I mean yes… well… not like… okay yes!” His words tumbled over each other, incoherent, frantic. His hands flailed helplessly before he slammed them back onto his knees and forced himself still.
(Oh my god. Kill me now. I just said the dumbest thing ever in front of him.)
The model’s lips curved into the faintest, most dangerous smirk. His gaze softened, indulgent, as though the other’s panic was endlessly entertaining.
Till, desperate to fix his idiocy, scrambled for words. “I’m not… I mean, I’m not like a fan-fan, but… but I am a fan, just not the… crazy type? No, wait, that sounds worse—”
The words spiraled into nonsense, until his voice strangled itself into silence. His ears burned. His chest thudded like a war drum.
And then I.V chuckled. Low. Rich. A sound that vibrated through the smoke-hazed air and wrapped around the silver-head like velvet.
He leaned in slightly, taking another drag of his cigarette, eyes never leaving his face. He exhaled slowly, deliberately blowing the smoke directly toward him. The faint grey tendrils curled around Till’s flushed cheeks, brushing against his lips, invading his lungs with the faintest taste of ash and fire.
Till froze.
His idol… his obsession… was teasing him.
“I’m glad,” he murmured, voice dark and intimate, “that I get to have such a cute fan.”
The smaller man’s body betrayed him. His stomach flipped violently, his chest tightened, his thighs clenched under the bar. His brain screamed.
(Cute. He called me cute. I.V thinks I’m cute. Oh my god. Oh my GOD.)
His face was so hot he was certain steam was rising from his skin. He took another desperate gulp of water, choking again, and slammed the bottle down too hard.
I.V. chuckled once more, smoke curling lazily from his lips. “Careful,” he said, tapping ash into the tray. “Breathe. Drink. Relax.”
Till nodded rapidly, drinking again, but it didn’t help. His heart was thrashing in his chest like it wanted to claw its way out. His breaths came too fast, too shallow, and his hands shook violently as he tried to steady the bottle.
The pressure inside him snapped.
“I… I think I’m gonna die,” he blurted out, voice cracking, far too loud for the quiet space of the bar. “My heart is—like… it’s hammering so bad and I’m not even sure I’m breathing right now!”
His words echoed. Heads turned. Silence followed.
His soul left his body. His hands shot up to cover his face, his entire being consumed by humiliation. (I’m going to jump into the Han River. Right now. Goodbye cruel world.)
And then, against all odds, laughter filled the air.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
Warm. Amused. Genuinely entertained.
He peeked through his fingers.
I.V was laughing. His head tilted back slightly, lips curved in a genuine grin, cigarette dangling between two ringed fingers. His shoulders shook, his eyes gleamed with unfiltered mirth.
“You,” the man started between chuckles, leaning slightly closer again, “are… absolutely adorable.”
Till combusted. Again.
No judgment lingered in the model’s gaze. No ridicule. Just pure, unguarded amusement… as though his panic, his flustered honesty, was the most refreshing thing the other had encountered in ages.
He wanted to melt into the floor. He wanted to scream. He wanted to replay that laugh forever.
And above all… he wanted to survive long enough to hear it again.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I shall see you in the next chapter guys.
Until then please take care and be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 6: Smoke and Shadows
Summary:
This time, when he inhaled, he did it carefully… slowly, shallowly, with I.V’s arm steady around him. Smoke filled his lungs, not as harsh as before, more manageable, almost warm. He closed his eyes.
“There you go,” his idol murmured, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. He leaned in close, his lips brushing near his ear as he whispered, “Keep it in… just for a moment. Then exhale.”
Till obeyed, trembling. He held the smoke until it burned, then let it out in a shaky stream.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
“You’re hilarious,” I.V said finally, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His long hair slid over one shoulder, crimson streaks glinting beneath the dim bar lights.
Till felt his ears ringing. (Hilarious?) His idol… the man who had inspired his entire career, his dream, his life… had just called him hilarious. Not in a cruel way. In an affectionate one.
Flustered beyond repair, he ducked his head. “T-thanks, I guess…”
But the man wasn’t done with him.
“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning casually on the bar, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
It took the other a moment to remember how to speak. “T-Till,” he managed, voice small and uneven.
“Till,” I.V repeated slowly, tasting the syllables like they meant something. His gaze lingered, sharp and intent. “You don’t go out much, do you?”
The words made him blink in confusion. He sat up straighter, trying to cover his nerves with a frown. “Why do you think that?”
I.V’s lips quirked. “Because even though you dress like a rebel…” His eyes trailed over him: his chains, piercings, painted nails, ripped jeans… with deliberate slowness that made the smaller man want to crawl out of his skin. “You are pretty innocent.”
Heat pooled in Till’s face again, but this time it wasn’t only from embarrassment. Something about the way I.V’s gaze stripped him down… not his clothes, but the layers of armor he wore around his heart… made him feel… vulnerable.
And vulnerable, in front of him, felt unbearable.
He forced himself to smile, though it came out softer than he meant. “My fashion sense is the wildest part of me.”
The admission slipped from him like a secret. And it was true. He could dress himself in leather, chains, piercings… he could wrap himself in the armor of punk. But at his core, he was careful. Serious. Cautious. Pure.
The model’s smirk deepened as if he had been waiting for that confession. He leaned forward, gaze intent, his voice lowering until it was almost a purr. “Do you want to change that?”
Till blinked. “Change… what?”
“The innocent part,” I.V responded, his tone languid and deliberate. “Do you want to learn the nightlife, Till?”
Said man’s heart stuttered. He couldn’t tell if it was anxiousness or excitement that made his pulse quicken, but he knew he couldn’t answer. His lips parted, but no words came out. He was stunned into silence.
And then the other leaned closer.
Till froze as an arm: long, strong, leather sleeve … brushing against his own… slipping around his shoulders. Heat radiated from I.V’s body, intoxicating in its closeness. Before he could process the sudden contact, the model lifted the cigarette he had been smoking and… without warning… slipped it between Till’s lips.
His eyes widened.
The cigarette rested against his mouth, the filter brushing his lip ring. I.V’s fingers still held it in place, so close that he could feel the heat of his knuckles against his skin. Smoke swirled faintly upward, stinging his nose, filling his senses with the sharp, heavy scent of tobacco mixed with leather and musk.
“I bet,” I.V murmured, gaze steady and sharp, “you’ve never even smoked before.”
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. His idol was holding a cigarette in his mouth, feeding him smoke, like some intimate ritual.
And because he didn’t know what else to do, he inhaled.
Immediately, his chest rebelled. He coughed violently, choking on the acrid taste, pulling back instinctively. His eyes watered, his throat burned, his pride shattered. “Ugh! I-I told you—”
But the man only chuckled, arm around Till’s shoulders slipping lower, settling firmly around his waist. His grip was strong but guiding, steadying him like he was taming a skittish animal. “Slow down. Not like that.”
He lifted the cigarette again, placing it once more between the other’s lips, his own hand still holding it. His other hand pressed lightly against his waist, anchoring him in place. His voice dropped low. “Let me guide you.”
Till’s pulse thundered in his ears. His hands clenched against his knees.
This time, when he inhaled, he did it carefully… slowly, shallowly, with I.V’s arm steady around him. Smoke filled his lungs, not as harsh as before, more manageable, almost warm. He closed his eyes.
“There you go,” his idol murmured, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. He leaned in close, his lips brushing near his ear as he whispered, “Keep it in… just for a moment. Then exhale.”
Till obeyed, trembling. He held the smoke until it burned, then let it out in a shaky stream.
“Good,” I.V hummed, pleased. His hand, once steady on his waist, slid upward with languid ease until it reached the other’s ear. Fingers grazed the line of his piercings before flicking lightly against his earlobe.
The gesture should have been casual. It wasn’t.
The way his fingertip lingered, the intimacy of it, the heat that sparked at the sensitive spot… it sent a shiver racing down Till’s spine.
His breath hitched audibly.
I.V smirked at the sound. “Already,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement, “you’re starting to look like a real punk-boy.”
Till opened his eyes, dazed, chest tight. The world swayed around him… not from the smoke, but from the man holding him captive with nothing more than his hand and his gaze. His head spun, his pulse raced, but it wasn’t nicotine that intoxicated him.
It was I.V.
Everything about him: the closeness, the scent, the smirk, the way his touch lingered… was overwhelming. Addictive. Dangerous.
His idol. His dream. His obsession.
And now his downfall.
The model leaned in again, lips nearly brushing his ear. His whisper was sharp, intimate, forbidden. “When you get home… DM me. I’ll make sure to show you just how fun the night life can be.”
Till’s heart stopped. Then restarted violently, hammering against his ribs.
He was too stunned to reply. Too dazed to think. His mind blanked under the weight of the words, under the implication, under the sheer possibility of what was being offered.
I.V smirked, clearly satisfied with the reaction. He withdrew slowly, deliberately, fingers brushing against his earlobe one last time before slipping away.
The loss of contact felt like a plunge into cold water.
And then, without another word, the man stubbed his cigarette out in the nearby tray, rose from the stool, and strode toward the bar’s exit. His boots echoed against the floor, his leather jacket catching the neon glow as he pushed open the door.
He didn’t look back.
But Till… Till couldn’t move.
His body buzzed. His skin tingled where his idol had touched him. His lips still felt the phantom press of the cigarette filter. His ear burned from the flick of I.V’s finger.
He sat frozen, flushed to the roots of his hair, his breath shallow, his chest aching, his entire being caught in a haze of smoke, desire, and disbelief.
He couldn’t tell if this was real.
But if it was a dream… he never wanted to wake up.
_____
The city outside was cool when he finally stumbled out of the bar. His boots clicked on the pavement as neon lights smeared across puddles in fractured colors. His lungs still carried the ghost of smoke, his skin still tingled from a touch that wasn’t supposed to happen, and his heart… his heart hadn’t slowed even a little.
By the time he got home, his legs felt like jelly. He closed the door behind him and sagged against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.
His room greeted him like always: I.V everywhere. Posters, magazines, merch. And now, every glossy stare of his idol felt different. Before, they had been images of someone impossibly distant. Now, they were reminders of the warmth of a hand at his waist, a smirk meant just for him, the husky whisper of DM him.
His fingers shook as he grabbed his phone. He unlocked it. Opened Instagram. Stared at the empty message bar for a full minute.
Should he? Should he not?
What if it was a joke? What if I.V. didn’t even check his DMs? What if he embarrassed himself again?
But then he remembered that look. The smirk. The way the man’s voice had dropped low, promising. He remembered the words: “When you get home… DM me.”
So he typed. Simple. Safe.
@till_the _end: I’m home.
He hovered. Should he add something? A thank you? A goodnight? No. Too desperate. Just that. Just…
The typing dots appeared almost instantly. His breath hitched.
@I.V_official ✓⃝: Good night.
@I.V_official ✓⃝: Sleep well, cutie <3
Till dropped his phone like it had burned him. His entire face went nuclear red.
(Cutie.)
He buried his face in his hands, muffling a half-scream. His idol… his untouchable, perfect, godlike idol… had just called him cutie. With a heart. A freaking heart.
He flopped onto his bed, rolling onto his stomach, clutching his pillow like it could keep him from floating into the stratosphere. Sleep was impossible. His body was too hot, his heart too wild. But he didn’t care.
Because for the first time, his idol wasn’t just a dream. He was real. And he was speaking directly to him.
⸻
Across the city, in a dimly lit penthouse, another phone screen glowed.
The same words hung there, satisfied smirk tugging at the lips of the man reading them. He tapped the screen once more, then set the phone down.
With practiced motions, he slipped the silver rings from his fingers and placed them neatly in a small black box. The heavy leather jacket was peeled off, followed by the asymmetrical shirt. One by one, the piercings came out…earrings, eyebrow studs, lip ring… each dropped into a dish on the dresser.
The mirror reflected a different man now.
Long raven hair with crimson streaks was tugged loose, the silky strands falling around his shoulders. He tied them back into a bun before reaching for the short, curly raven wig that sat on a mannequin head nearby. He slipped it on, adjusting it until it sat snugly, until the reflection shifted again.
I.V was gone.
And Ivan remained.
Oversized hoodie. Sweatpants. Bare face, stripped of glamour. No piercings or rings. No leather. Just a man with messy curls under a bucket hat he hadn’t put on yet, staring at himself in the mirror.
He let out a soft, humorless laugh.
“Cutie” he murmured to his reflection, his voice lower now, lacking the sharp, magnetic edge he used as I.V.
But even as Ivan ran a hand through his curls, the memory of Till’s wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and trembling voice replayed in his head. That man… his classmate, the one who looked at him like he was both untouchable and everything… was dangerous.
Because he didn’t know.
And Ivan wasn’t sure how long he could keep it that way.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
As per usual, look out for the new chapter update tmr :)
Until then, take care and be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 7: Variations of Love
Summary:
But then the professor turned to him.
“And Till,” she continued, her tone shifting, “your sketch is excellent, as always. But tell me… how does this represent love?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Love?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “The theme, Till, is Variations of Love. Not rebellion, not pain. Love.”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Fame had never been a foreign concept to Ivan.
He was born under the glimmer of studio lights and raised in the shadow of success. Cameras, interviews, rehearsals… they had all been as natural to him as breathing. Some people had lullabies sung to them as infants; he had heard the whir of camera shutters and the murmur of stage directors.
The Hwan family didn’t just belong to South Korea’s entertainment industry… they owned it. Nearly seventy percent of every glitzy red carpet, billboard, or chart-topping phenomenon could trace its way back to a Hwan venture. His parents had built an empire from their artistry, and now he and his older sister were its heirs: the golden children who embodied perfection before the public’s hungry eyes.
Sua, his sister… was an actress of international acclaim, known for her poise and control. Ivan was the model… the visual masterpiece, the walking symbol of rebellion and allure. I.V.
The irony never failed to amuse him: that his stage name, a stylized abbreviation of his real one, had grown larger than his actual identity.
He lived between flashbulbs and runways, between tailored suits and avant-garde campaigns. The spotlight adored him… and he, in turn, played his part flawlessly. Every smirk, every gaze, every calculated angle was another mask he wore with ease.
But when the lights went out, when he was just Ivan… hoodie pulled over his head, rings tucked away, hair hidden beneath a wig… he often found himself wondering what any of it meant.
Because once, before the fame swallowed him whole, he had wanted something different.
He had wanted to create.
He could still remember the first time he touched fabric not as a model but as a trainee… before his father’s PR team had rebranded his curiosity as “character building.” He remembered pricking his finger, again and again, until the tiny punctures burned. His stitches were uneven, his seams crude. Every attempt to sew, cut, or pattern ended in frustration. His hands weren’t steady enough. His creativity faltered when it came to precision.
He’d laughed it off back then, saying it wasn’t for him… that he’d rather wear art than make it. But deep down, the failure had stung.
And then he’d seen that outfit.
It had been displayed in the student showcase a year ago… a project from a first-year class he’d been invited to observe before his own term began. A punk-inspired piece, but unlike the usual aggressive interpretations of the genre, this one had heart. The rough fabrics had been arranged with a kind of emotional sincerity. The asymmetrical cuts whispered vulnerability. The hand-painted details screamed defiance and longing all at once.
He had stopped in front of it for longer than he intended to.
There had been no name card on the piece, just a student code number. But later, when he saw that same outfit on a class assignment list pinned in the hall, he found the name written in small, neat handwriting beside it.
Till.
He hadn’t forgotten that name since.
There was something raw in Till’s designs… an honesty Ivan envied. They didn’t try to be beautiful. They were beautiful because they were unapologetically real. Every line seemed to express something that words couldn’t.
And maybe that was why he had chosen to hide himself so carefully from the man when they ended up in the same class later. He didn’t want that kind of person seeing through him. Not until he could figure out what exactly Till made him feel.
But now, sitting at his desk with the morning sun slipping through the blinds, he smiled faintly as he glanced at his new project partner… the very man whose art had once made him feel again.
Till was flipping through his sketchbook, his brows furrowed in concentration, his piercings catching the light. His nails were painted red today, one chipped at the edge.
Ivan thought absently that even the way the other focused had a kind of beauty to it.
“Alright,” their professor’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the classroom. “Today, we’ll continue and finalize your concept proposals before you begin material acquisition. You’ll each present your designs to me.”
Till straightened immediately, eyes sharp with determination. Ivan could tell he had been waiting for this.
They both worked separately that morning: the silver-head hunched over his sketchbook, finalizing the sketch’s sleek silhouettes and the punk textures with the usual flair that made his work stand out. Ivan tried to keep up, but his own page remained an untamed mess of lines and color blotches. His mind wasn’t translating the idea clearly enough.
By the time the professor called them forward, Till looked proud, confident. Ivan, less so.
They presented together.
The smaller man’s sketch and concept was, as expected, striking. A figure clad in distressed leather, red thread embroidery forming a broken heart motif on the back, chains looping from belt to wrist. His base patterns along with fabrics also attached to his book beside the sketch. It screamed rebellion and longing.
Ivan’s, by contrast, was far simpler: two figures facing away from each other but connected by the same oversized jacket, half soft and white, half dark and jagged, symbolizing unity in difference. The drawing itself was rough, but the concept, in his mind, was about balance and love.
The professor adjusted her glasses, studying both.
“Well,” she began slowly, “Ivan, your idea is interesting, but your execution lacks clarity. It’s difficult to visualize how the garment would actually look.”
Till’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk.
But then the professor turned to him.
“And Till,” she continued, her tone shifting, “your sketch is excellent, as always. But tell me… how does this represent love?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Love?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “The theme, Till, is Variations of Love. Not rebellion, not pain. Love.”
The man’s heart sank. He’d been so focused on impressing… on designing something worthy of I.V, that he had forgotten the foundation of the project entirely.
His voice faltered. “I… I thought the passion and emotion could be—”
The professor shook her head. “You’re missing the connection to the theme. Love takes many forms, but your design feels detached, more about aesthetics than emotion. Both of you,” she said, glancing between them, “need to find cohesion. Right now, it feels like two people designing in isolation, not a partnership. I suggest you spend time truly collaborating. Understand each other’s vision before proceeding.”
She moved on to the next pair, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.
Till’s confidence deflated instantly. His smirk vanished.
Beside him, Ivan stifled a chuckle, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’re both hopeless, huh?”
The silver-head shot him a glare before sighing and looking away. The edge of embarrassment in his chest burned. “I can’t believe I forgot the damn theme.”
“Maybe love’s not your thing,” the raven-head teased lightly.
Till gave a dry laugh. “Maybe not.”
They returned to their seats. The silence between them stretched, heavy with awkwardness and unspoken frustration. He tapped his pen against the desk, trying not to let his pride sting too much.
Finally, he exhaled and turned slightly toward the taller man. “Let me see your sketchbook.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Thought you hated my art.”
“I do,” Till stated flatly, then caught himself. “I mean… no. Not hate. It’s just… if we’re gonna work together, I should at least know what you’re thinking.”
Ivan grinned, amused by the sudden softness in his tone. He slid the sketchbook over.
Till opened it carefully this time. The pages were still chaotic: uneven lines, messy concepts… but there was something oddly sincere about them. Beneath the lack of technical skill, the ideas glowed with emotion. Each design had a story, a heartbeat.
“This one…” he murmured, tracing the rough drawing of two figures sharing one jacket. “What’s it supposed to mean?”
Ivan shrugged. “Love’s messy. Sometimes it’s two people trying to make something fit when it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s sharing something that doesn’t quite belong to either person alone.”
The other went silent for a moment. He hadn’t expected an answer like that.
“Wow,” he said quietly. “That’s… actually a great concept.”
Ivan blinked, caught off guard himself by the rare praise.
Till sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for being an ass. I just—” He hesitated, eyes darting toward the window. “I really want to win this competition. I want to prove that my designs are not… worthless. It’s stupid, I know, but—”
“It’s not stupid,” the raven-head interrupted softly.
Till looked up.
Ivan smiled faintly, his gaze warm, almost fond. “It’s passion. There’s nothing stupid about wanting something that badly.”
The other’s lips parted as he stared at him, momentarily forgetting to breathe. Something in the man’s eyes felt familiar: a quiet kind of understanding he couldn’t place.
“Still,” Till muttered, breaking the moment. “I need to stop being a jerk if we’re gonna make this work. So…” He held out his hand awkwardly. “Let’s start over. As partners.”
Ivan looked at his hand for a second before shaking it, his palm warm against his cold rings. “Partners.”
For a brief moment, their hands lingered… calloused and ink-stained, yet strangely fitting together.
Till felt the corners of his mouth lift, a rare, small smile breaking through his usual cool composure.
Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.
And as Ivan looked at that smile: honest, unguarded… he knew with sudden certainty that working beside the smaller man was going to be far more dangerous than he’d ever planned.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading and I will see you in the chapter update hopefully tomorrow:)
Until then, stay safe and have a wonderful day/night <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 8: Colors of the Night
Summary:
Before Till could protest, Ivan tugged him into the crowd. A splash of bright pink paint hit his shoulder immediately, and he gasped, glaring at the laughing stranger who’d thrown it.
“Oh, you’re on,” Till muttered, grabbing a brush from a nearby bucket.
He turned to Ivan, who was already smeared with green on one cheek, holding a dripping brush like a weapon. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the noise around them faded. Then, without warning, Till flicked his wrist, splattering red paint across Ivan’s hoodie.
The man’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, it’s war now.”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Days passed in a blur of fabric swatches, ink-stained pages, and half-drunk cups of coffee.
The air between the two had shifted: subtly, almost imperceptibly… but it was there.
Where there had once been tension sharp enough to slice through, now there was something softer. Something hesitant, curious.
They spent most of their time holed up in the design studio, a quiet rhythm forming between them. Till would sketch, erase, curse, and sketch again, while Ivan leaned against the table beside him, spinning a pencil between his fingers and offering unsolicited commentary.
Sometimes his comments were ridiculous. Sometimes they were unexpectedly profound.
And today, it was one of those throwaway remarks that changed everything.
They had been sitting side by side, the afternoon light fading into orange through the studio windows. Till was frowning over a sketch, his pen tapping against the paper, frustration curling his lip.
Ivan, sprawled lazily in his chair, spoke without really thinking.
“Y’know, there’s something about nighttime that makes people honest,” he said, his voice soft, thoughtful. “Like, it’s easier to be free when the lights are low. Maybe because no one’s watching.”
Till froze mid-tap.
His pen stopped. His breath stilled.
Something inside his head clicked… a spark, sudden and bright.
“Wait,” he muttered, turning to look at Ivan. “Say that again.”
The other blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… people are honest at night?”
“No,” Till said quickly, his eyes lighting up. “The part about being free.”
The other tilted his head. “…That it’s easier at night?”
The smaller man slammed his notebook shut, standing abruptly. “That’s it!”
Ivan stared. “What’s it?”
Till spun around, pacing as words spilled out of him, fast and eager. “Love and nightlife… that’s our concept. The love for the night, the energy, the freedom! People let go at night, right? They dance, they drink, they flirt. It’s when people stop pretending and actually live. That’s where our theme fits: love as freedom, love as courage.”
He looked back at Ivan, breathless. “Your dream was to make clothes that give people courage, right? This is it! Nightlife takes courage. The love of nightlife brings people together, gives them confidence, power.”
The raven-head blinked, slowly processing the outburst. Then a small smile tugged at his mouth… one that threatened to bloom into laughter. “You got all that… from my one sentence?”
Till didn’t even notice the teasing. He was glowing, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with excitement.
That flush… it was faint at first, but as the other watched him, he saw it deepen.
Till’s fingers lifted and fidgeted with his labret piercing, his mind elsewhere. A faint memory replayed unbidden: I.V’s hand wrapped around his waist, the whisper against his ear: “I’ll make sure to show you just how fun the night life can be.”
The words echoed so vividly that his skin prickled. He tried to focus, but the image of his idol leaning close, smoke curling between them, kept flooding back.
And as his face turned redder, Ivan, sitting just inches away, felt his chest tighten.
Because he had a feeling what the other was thinking… and he remembered too.
That night… the cigarette, the blush, the trembling awe in Till’s eyes. Only now the smaller man was sitting before him again, smiling, his lips moving animatedly as he explained something about punk motifs and romantic undertones.
He forced his gaze away, heart pounding a little too fast.
“Y-yeah,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “That… actually sounds like a great concept.”
Till’s grin widened, completely missing the faint tremor in his tone. “Right? It ties everything together: your goal, my design style, the theme. It’s perfect!”
He paused, then crossed his arms and added proudly, “And I know all about nightlife.”
Ivan almost choked. “You… do?”
“Of course,” he stated too quickly, trying to sound confident. “I’ve… been out. Many times.”
The raven-head bit the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh. He’d seen the way Till stiffened in the bar… he knew the boy had never spent a real night out beyond that one encounter.
“Right,” he responded, lips twitching. “So, what, you’re gonna show me the ropes?”
Till nodded, resolute. “Exactly! I’ll take you somewhere that’ll help visualize our theme. You’ll get it once you see it.”
“Alright then,” the other stated, his voice a little too amused. “Lead the way.”
⸻
They arrived at the bar just as the sun dipped behind the skyline, washing the streets in a dim purple haze.
Till straightened his jacket as they approached the familiar graffiti-splattered entrance. The same one from that night. His stomach fluttered. He still half-expected to see I.V. leaning against the door, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
Beside him, Ivan shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets, trying not to laugh. His shoulders trembled as they neared the door.
Till noticed immediately. “Why are you shaking?”
“I’m not,” he muttered, biting down on his lower lip to keep from grinning.
“You are!” Till frowned, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re literally vibrating.”
“I just… uh, don’t usually go out like this,” he said quickly, pretending to adjust his hat. “Too many people.”
Till hummed, actually convinced. He pushed open the door… and stopped dead in his tracks.
The bar was unrecognizable.
Gone were the smoky corners and dim lights. Instead, pulsing neon strobes flashed through the air, the walls covered in plastic sheets splattered with vivid paint. Dozens of people danced and laughed, faces streaked with color. Bottles of neon paint sat in buckets across the floor, and a DJ shouted over the music, “Grab a brush and paint the night, everyone!”
He blinked. “What… the hell?”
Ivan blinked too, equally startled… though his lips were twitching again.
“Maybe… we should—” Till began.
“Nope,” the other cut in with a sudden grin, catching his wrist. “This counts as nightlife too.”
Before Till could protest, Ivan tugged him into the crowd. A splash of bright pink paint hit his shoulder immediately, and he gasped, glaring at the laughing stranger who’d thrown it.
“Oh, you’re on,” Till muttered, grabbing a brush from a nearby bucket.
He turned to Ivan, who was already smeared with green on one cheek, holding a dripping brush like a weapon. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the noise around them faded. Then, without warning, Till flicked his wrist, splattering red paint across Ivan’s hoodie.
The man’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, it’s war now.”
The next few minutes were chaos: laughter, shouts, streaks of colors flying through the air. Till darted behind a pillar, giggling breathlessly, only for Ivan to chase after him, grinning like a maniac.
“Come here, you menace!” He called, ducking under a splash of blue paint.
“No way!” Till shouted, dodging, but he wasn’t fast enough. Ivan caught him from behind, arms looping around his waist as he lifted him clean off the ground.
“Got you,” the raven-head said, breathless with laughter.
Till wriggled and kicked, laughing too, until the man pressed a brush against his cheek, dabbing streaks of purple across his skin.
“Hey—!” The smaller man protested between bursts of laughter. He twisted in his arms, grabbing his own brush and smearing blue across his jaw.
The crowd cheered them on as the two of them descended into a colorful mess: paint streaking their faces, hair, clothes. Till’s laughter rang bright and unrestrained, freer than Ivan had ever heard it.
And for a brief, shining moment, the taller man forgot to breathe.
He was still holding him, still close enough to feel the warmth of him, the faint smell of paint and cologne and something sweeter beneath. Till’s eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted in laughter.
Then the silver-head stilled, realizing just how close they were: chest to chest, breath mingling. The laughter died between them, replaced by something heavier.
He blinked, his smile fading into a shy line. His heartbeat was loud enough that he was sure the other could hear it.
“I—uh… we should probably… head out,” he said quickly, stepping back, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
Ivan’s hand fell to his side, still tingling where it had rested against his waist.
“Yeah,” he said softly, watching him. A smirk ghosted over his lips… not mocking, but something gentler. “Probably.”
They left the bar side by side, still splattered in color, the air between them charged but quiet.
As they walked through the neon-lit streets, Till kept his gaze fixed ahead, pretending not to notice when Ivan glanced at him: the faint curve of amusement and warmth in his eyes, like he was seeing something he’d been waiting for.
Because for Ivan, the colors of that night weren’t just on their skin.
They were under it.
And no amount of washing them off would make them fade.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I shall see you in the next chapter update hopefully tmr ;)
Have a wonderful day/night and be safe <3
Ps: I am so appreciative of the support and love this fic has been getting. Please check out the manga I’ve inspired this story on. I think you’ll enjoy it :)
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 9: Stains That Linger
Summary:
Their gazes met then… just for a heartbeat… and the air between them shifted again. Neither of them spoke. The world outside the apartment might as well have ceased to exist. It was just them: two people caught somewhere between partnership and something else, their walls slowly cracking.
Till broke the gaze first. He turned away, reaching for a clean shirt and slipping it on quickly, as though that could ground him again. “It’s late,” he muttered, his voice a little too quiet. “You should probably head home.”
The raven-head nodded. “Yeah. I should.”
He moved toward the door, grabbing his bucket hat on the way. When he reached the hallway, he paused, glancing back.
Till stood in the doorway, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets, the faintest streak of pink still staining his cheeks.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The night air was crisp and cool against Till’s flushed skin as they walked side by side, their clothes still damp from the paint-throwing chaos. The once-silent distance between them felt filled now: not by words, but by laughter that still echoed faintly in their ears. He hadn’t laughed like that in years. Not since before fashion school, before he decided that being serious was the only way to survive in this industry.
Now, with streaks of blue and red and neon green paint splattered across his arms, he didn’t feel like the cold, untouchable student everyone thought he was. He felt… alive. And that realization unsettled him in ways he couldn’t put into words.
They reached the front of his small apartment building. The hallway lights flickered lazily, and Till could still feel the faint pulse of the bass from the bar down the street. He turned toward Ivan, brushing the hair out of his eyes.
“My place is here,” he said, his tone casual but his heart oddly loud in his chest. “You should come in and clean up. That paint is going to dry like cement otherwise.”
Ivan’s lips quirked upward, amused. “You sure? I might track more of this mess inside.”
“I’ll live,” Till replied, trying to sound nonchalant, even as his chest tightened.
He was inviting Ivan… Ivan, of all people… into his personal space.
The other nodded, his curly raven hair bouncing slightly beneath his bucket hat. “Alright, I’ll take you up on that.”
They reached Till’s door, and he unlocked it swiftly. But the moment he opened it, his eyes widened… and his stomach dropped.
Oh no.
He had forgotten.
I.V. was everywhere.
Magazines fanned across his desk. Posters plastered his walls: photoshoots, runway photos, candid interviews. There were framed prints of his idol’s most iconic looks, small shelves lined with collectibles, even a copy of a limited-edition photobook propped proudly near his bed. His room was a shrine… no, a cathedral dedicated to his idol.
He turned halfway, blocking the doorway with his body.
“Uh— wait here,” he stated quickly, his voice just a bit too high. “I’ll be right back.”
Ivan blinked, confused but obliging. “Sure?”
Till shut the door before the man could step inside and pressed his back against it, mortified.
He scanned the room like a man facing an active crime scene.
“Think, Till, think!” he muttered under his breath, racing to grab whatever fabric he could find. He yanked a few large fabric cloths from his closet and began covering the walls like he was hiding evidence. He tossed the magazines into a box and shoved it into the closet, whispering frantic apologies to the precious photobooks as he stacked them out of sight. His hands moved fast… almost too fast… driven by sheer panic and adrenaline.
By the time he was done, his breathing was ragged, his room looked vaguely like an art studio under renovation, and his idol’s piercing eyes were hidden from view.
“Okay,” he whispered, straightening his shirt. “He won’t notice. Just… act natural.”
He opened the door, trying to look composed. Ivan was standing there, still splattered in paint, his hoodie sticking to his arms. He raised a brow at Till’s slightly flushed face.
“You okay?”
The other nodded too quickly. “Fine. Perfect. You can come in.”
Ivan smiled faintly, stepping inside. “Thanks.”
The air between them shifted once more: quieter, more domestic. The scent of paint mixed with the faint notes of Till’s cologne, warm vanilla and spice. The raven-head looked around, curious but polite enough not to comment on the oddly covered walls.
“Bathroom’s that way,” Till said, pointing down the hall. “I’ll grab you something to wear in the meantime.”
Ivan gave him a lazy salute and disappeared behind the bathroom door.
The silver-head finally exhaled. He pressed his palms against his flushed cheeks, willing himself to calm down. He rummaged through his drawers, eventually pulling out an oversized black T-shirt that had once belonged to his cousin. It would be enough for Ivan. Maybe a bit tight, but that was fine. He set it down on the bathroom counter for him.
The sound of running water came from the bathroom. A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and Till turned instinctively.
Ivan stepped out, hair damp, droplets of water running down his neck. The hoodie was gone, replaced by the simple T-shirt Till had lent him, though it hung tightly from around his waist as he towel-dried his face. His skin glistened faintly under the light, muscles flexing with each movement.
His throat went dry.
Ivan’s usual oversized clothes had always hidden his frame, but now… now it was impossible not to notice. Broad shoulders, toned arms, the definition of his abs through the tight shirt. But what really caught Till’s eyes was the glint of silver right above the man’s navel.
A piercing.
A belly button piercing.
He froze.
His brain short-circuited. Ivan: clumsy, hoodie-wearing, sweatpants-loving Ivan… had a belly piercing? It didn’t make sense. It was too… rebellious. Unlike him.
His gaze lingered longer than it should have. Long enough for the man to notice.
The corner of the taller man’s mouth curved upward. “You done staring, or should I spin for you?”
Till’s face went crimson. “I-I wasn’t staring!”
“Really?” The raven-head chuckled softly. “Because it sure felt like you were analyzing every inch.”
“I was not—” Till started, then stopped, realizing his voice had gone embarrassingly high again. “Just… surprised. You don’t seem like the type to have a belly piercing.”
Ivan tilted his head and then looked down to his navel. “Ah! Then what type do I seem like, then?”
The other blinked. “The… i don’t care about how I look type.”
Ivan laughed quietly, his voice warm. “Guess people aren’t always what they seem.”
The words hung in the air, oddly heavy for how casual they sounded. Till swallowed and turned away, pretending to busy himself by adjusting a random stack of fabric on the table. His hands felt clumsy, his mind even more so.
Ivan watched in full amusement.
⸻
When Till’s turn came to shower, he was thankful for the distraction. The water washed away the paint but did nothing for the way his heart had been hammering ever since the man had teased him. He told himself to focus… just shower, dry off, see him off and go to bed.
But when he stepped out, toweling his hair, he realized there was one stubborn streak of paint trailing along his back where his fingers couldn’t quite reach. He groaned softly, frustrated.
“Hey, Ivan,” he called, stepping halfway into the living room. “Can you—”
The raven-head looked up from where he sat on the floor scrolling through his phone… and froze mid-scroll.
Till stood shirtless in the doorway, water still beading along his shoulders and tracing down his spine. His skin glowed faintly under the warm light, his silver piercings glinting subtly at his lip, ears and brow. He looked smaller somehow, more vulnerable without his usual layers of punk armor.
“I… can’t reach this spot,” he mumbled, turning his back toward him. “Could you get it off? Just… the dried paint.”
Ivan rose slowly from where he sat, his heartbeat unexpectedly loud in his ears.
He crossed the room, each step soft, deliberate.
When he stopped behind the other, the air felt charged: thick with something unspoken. He was given a hand towel, his fingers brushing gently against Till’s shoulder as he retrieved it.
The first touch made the smaller man flinch… not from discomfort, but from surprise. Ivan’s hand was warm, the hand towel cool. He began to rub carefully at the paint, his movements slow and deliberate.
But as the stubborn streak resisted, his hand lingered. He set the towel aside and used his fingers instead, tracing the line of Till’s spine.
The man’s breath caught. The sensation was soft, almost feather-light, but intimate in a way that made his pulse trip. Ivan’s fingertips followed the gentle curve of his vertebrae, slow, patient, like he was memorizing it.
“This paint really doesn’t want to come off,” Ivan murmured, his voice lower now, closer to Till’s ear. “Guess I’ll have to be thorough.”
The silver-head nodded wordlessly, though his mind had gone blank. He could feel the subtle drag of the other’s finger against his skin, the warmth radiating from behind him. The air seemed to hum with quiet electricity. He told himself it was just cleaning… that Ivan was just helping… but every small touch made his senses blur.
Ivan, meanwhile, knew exactly what he was doing… the paint had been long gone and he took the opportunity to continue to touch the other’s skin. He hated that he couldn’t quite stop himself. The small shiver that ran through Till’s body when his fingers grazed lower… it did something to him. Something dangerous.
He forced himself to pull away, to breathe.
“Got it,” he said finally, stepping back.
Till turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. His face was faintly flushed, his hair sticking damply to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he said softly.
Ivan nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, hiding the faint tremor in them. “No problem.”
Their gazes met then… just for a heartbeat… and the air between them shifted again. Neither of them spoke. The world outside the apartment might as well have ceased to exist. It was just them: two people caught somewhere between partnership and something else, their walls slowly cracking.
Till broke the gaze first. He turned away, reaching for a clean shirt and slipping it on quickly, as though that could ground him again. “It’s late,” he muttered, his voice a little too quiet. “You should probably head home.”
The raven-head nodded. “Yeah. I should.”
He moved toward the door, grabbing his bucket hat on the way. When he reached the hallway, he paused, glancing back.
Till stood in the doorway, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets, the faintest streak of pink still staining his cheeks.
Ivan smiled softly. “See you tomorrow, partner.”
The other nodded. “Yeah… see you.”
The door closed with a quiet click, leaving Till in the stillness of his apartment. He exhaled deeply, pressing a hand against his chest.
“What is wrong with me?” he whispered to himself, his heart refusing to calm down.
⸻
Outside, Ivan walked slowly down the street, the cool wind tugging at his borrowed shirt. He let out a breath that turned into a quiet laugh, half in disbelief, half in frustration.
He hadn’t meant to get that close… hadn’t meant to touch Till like that… but something about the designer pulled him in like gravity. Something honest, raw, unpolished. He was used to adoration, to people treating him like an image, a fantasy. But Till… Till had no idea who he really was. And maybe that was what made him feel so painfully seen.
He reached down, brushing his fingers across the silver piercing at his navel… the one that had nearly given him away tonight… and smiled faintly.
“Careful, Hwan Ivan,” he muttered under his breath to himself. “You’re playing with fire.”
He tilted his head up toward the night sky, stars scattered faintly across the city haze. His mind replayed the way the silver-head had looked back at him: open, flustered, but unguarded… and his chest ached in a way he hadn’t expected.
Then, quietly, to himself, he whispered:
“Guess I’m already burned.”
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
See you in the next chapter update hopefully tmr;)
Have a wonderful day/night and stay safe always <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 10: Smoke, Lights, and Crimson Streaks
Summary:
When he reached him, the man patted the empty stool beside him. “You made it.”
He sat, nerves tingling. “Of course I did. I—I was really happy you invited me.”
I.V smiled, leaning one elbow on the counter. “You look great.”
“Thank you,” Till said softly, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
The bartender set down two drinks: alcoholic and glowing faintly under the UV light. I.V pushed one toward Till, the rings on his fingers glinting.
“Relax,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You look like you’re bracing for an exam.”
Till laughed quietly, rubbing his neck. “I’m just… still not used to being around you, that’s all.”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
When Ivan reached the penthouse, the door shut behind him with a soft thud that echoed through the wide, quiet space. The city glittered beneath his windows, Seoul painted in neon and shadow, but for once the view did nothing to calm him. He walked straight to his mirror, hands slipping up to the edge of his wig.
With one practiced motion, he peeled it off.
The short, curly raven hair fell away to reveal the truth: his real hair, long and sleek, the strands a deep black streaked with red that gleamed faintly under the light. It fell past his shoulders like silk. He raked his fingers through it, exhaling deeply.
The transformation was always liberating, but tonight it felt heavier somehow.
“Dangerous,” he muttered to his reflection. “This is getting dangerous.”
He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the counter. The faint smudge of paint from the earlier chaos still lingered on his skin… a reminder of Till.
Till, with that guarded smile. Till, who made clothes that felt like truth itself. Till, whose laughter had sounded like freedom in a world that only demanded perfection.
Ivan’s reflection smiled faintly, almost bitterly. “I should’ve stayed away.”
But he couldn’t.
Because the truth was simple… and frightening.
He was in love.
He had been in love since the first day he’d seen his design displayed in that sunlit classroom, a year ago. It had stopped him in his tracks. The outfit had been raw, passionate, full of emotion that most students tried to hide. It had been alive, breathing. Honest in a way nothing in the fashion industry ever was.
He had thought: whoever made this understands something about the world I don’t.
That thought had never left him.
Before he could sink deeper into it, his phone buzzed against the counter. The name flashing across the screen pulled him from his reverie.
[Hyuna Noona💜 calling…]
He pressed accept, the sound of her voice bursting through instantly.
“Yah, Ibanny! You alive?” she teased. “You’ve been MIA all week! Anyway, listen… I’m spinning at that new underground rave tomorrow night. The whole crew’s coming. You better show up or I’m stealing your favorite leather jacket as revenge.”
He smiled, leaning against the counter. “A rave, huh? Sounds loud.”
“It’s a rave, genius. Of course it’s loud.” She laughed, then added, “You better be there! Maybe your busy schedule can finally include a social life.”
He hesitated for only a second before asking, “Can I bring a plus one?”
That was all the invitation she needed. “Oh? Someone?” she said, mock scandalized. “You, of all people, bringing a guest? Who is she? Or he? Wait, don’t tell me it’s a secret romance…”
“Just… someone I want to get to know better,” Ivan interrupted, smirking at her dramatic gasp.
“You are in trouble,” Hyuna declared gleefully. “Fine, yes, bring them. I’ll reserve a spot near the DJ booth. This is gonna be fun.”
They exchanged goodnights, and when the call ended, Ivan’s smirk softened into something gentler. Without a second thought, he switched accounts… from his private one to the public, glowing name the world knew.
@I.V_official ✓⃝
His fingers hovered for a moment before typing:
@I.V_official ✓⃝: hey cutie. are you free tomorrow night? there’s a rave i’m going to, would you come as my plus one? 💋
He set the phone down. The reply came almost instantly, like the universe was impatient for them.
@till_the_end: yes! absolutely yes!
Ivan chuckled softly to himself. The sound was full of both relief and danger.
⸻
The next night pulsed with light.
The rave was hidden beneath an old warehouse district, all flickering neon signs and graffiti-splashed walls. Music thrummed through the concrete, deep and alive, as though the whole city had a heartbeat.
He sat at the bar near the entrance, dressed in his element: a leather jacket adorned with studs and red thread embroidery, a designer shirt beneath, ripped black slacks belted with silver chains. His long hair, streaked with crimson, glistened under the blacklight and framed his sharp features. A silver cross dangled from one ear, catching every glint of light when he turned his head.
People stared… they always did… but tonight his eyes were elsewhere, scanning the crowd.
And then he saw him.
Till stepped hesitantly into the haze of light and smoke. His own outfit was pure devotion: a sleeveless black mesh top layered with distressed straps, fitted pants with zipper details, and combat boots. The faint shimmer of piercings caught the strobe lights.
He looked like he’d stepped straight out of one of the model’s photoshoots: raw, magnetic, and just a little out of place.
His lips curved. He lifted a hand and waved him over.
Till blinked, startled, then made his way through the crowd. The bass rolled like thunder under his boots, the colored lights painting his skin in flashes of pink, blue, violet. His heart was pounding… not from the music, but from the fact that I.V, his idol, was waving at him.
When he reached him, the man patted the empty stool beside him. “You made it.”
He sat, nerves tingling. “Of course I did. I—I was really happy you invited me.”
The other smiled, leaning one elbow on the counter. “You look great.”
“Thank you,” Till said softly, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
The bartender set down two drinks: alcoholic and glowing faintly under the UV light. I.V pushed one toward him, the rings on his fingers glinting.
“Relax,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You look like you’re bracing for an exam.”
Till laughed quietly, rubbing his neck. “I’m just… still not used to being around you, that’s all.”
The man tilted his head, amused. “Still starstruck?”
“A little,” the silver-head admitted, cheeks reddening.
His idol’s gaze flicked over him, curious, fond. Then, noticing the logo on Till’s shirt sleeve, he grinned. “Is that Punkl𖤐re?” (Punklore)
Till looked down. “Yeah. It’s one of my favorite brands.”
“You like that brand?”
The smaller man hesitated, then confessed, “It’s… the first brand you modeled for. I started buying it after your first campaign. I guess you could say it’s my comfort brand.”
Something in I.V’s chest tightened: a mix of surprise and something softer, deeper. He hadn’t expected that kind of devotion.
He studied him quietly for a long moment. “How long exactly have you been a fan of mine?”
Till laughed nervously. “Since your first runway. So years. You… you were the reason I got into fashion.”
There was no shame in the confession… only quiet truth. The other’s heart gave a small, dangerous stutter.
He leaned in, close enough that the bass seemed to pulse between them. “So… the piercings, too?”
Till blinked. “Huh?”
I.V smiled, a slow, teasing curve of lips. He lifted a hand, his rings cool against Till’s skin as he traced a single finger under his chin, then flicked gently at the small silver labret piercing just below his lower lip.
“This one,” he asked softly. “You got it because of me too?”
Till froze, the world shrinking down to the touch of that single finger. The lights, the music, the crowd… all of it blurred.
“I—” he started, but the words tangled in his throat. Then, almost shyly, he nodded.
I.V’s eyes gleamed with a mix of delight and danger. He turned the silver-head’s stool so that they faced each other directly, their knees brushing. His thumb ghosted over his lower lip, the metal of the piercing cold between the heat of their skin.
“Do you know how erotic that is, hmm?” he murmured, voice barely audible over the music. “Getting a piercing because of me?”
Till’s breath hitched. He tried to speak, failed, then tried again… his voice a shaky whisper. “You— you think so?”
I.V smirked. “I know so.”
The distance between them vanished until their faces were just inches apart. The smaller man could see the red streaks glinting in his idol’s hair, smell the faint mix of cologne, smoke and leather that clung to him. His heart was hammering so violently he was sure he could hear it.
He was sure they were going to kiss.
But instead, the man leaned back slightly, a sly smile still playing on his lips. “You’re adorable when you’re nervous.”
Till’s hands clenched on his knees, trying to steady himself. “You’re… really unfair.”
“Maybe,” the man responded with a shrug.
Till wanted to hide his face, but a laugh slipped out instead, light and genuine. The sound seemed to ease something in I.V.
Encouraged, the silver-head gathered his courage and asked, “Why do you love punk fashion so much? It’s always been your style, right?”
For a moment, the model’s gaze drifted… not away, but inward. His expression softened. “My family… you probably know them. The Hwan family. We’ve been in the spotlight since before I was born. Everything’s always been polished, perfect, controlled.”
Till nodded silently, listening.
“So when I found punk,” the man continued, “it felt like breathing for the first time. Messy, loud, chaotic… but real. It made me feel like myself.”
He paused, his eyes flicking back to his. “And the modeling thing? Honestly…” He chuckled, shaking his head. “My father cut off my card after I overbought clothing, so I started modeling to buy my own. Guess it worked out.”
Till blinked, then burst into quiet laughter. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious.”
“That’s… actually really funny.”
“I know.”
The laughter lingered between them, easy and genuine this time. I.V watched the way the smaller man’s shoulders relaxed, the tension melting from his frame.
Then, with a mischievous glint, he nudged his knee under the table.
Till looked up, startled. “What?”
I.V’s smile widened. “You nudged back earlier,” he said simply.
Till’s face went pink. “That was… accidental.”
“Sure it was.”
The other gave a playful glare, but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. For a moment, they just sat there, knees brushing, music pounding around them, neon lights splashing color across their faces.
The world was chaos, but this… this small, stolen corner of it… felt strangely perfect.
———
The rave carried on, wild and unstoppable, but neither of them really saw it. They talked, laughed, drink and occasionally fell silent just to watch each other. Every so often, their hands brushed on the counter. Every so often, I.V’s gaze lingered too long, and Till’s heart stuttered all over again.
The bass pulsed through the floor, lights cutting in ribbons of magenta and cyan. It wasn’t just sound anymore… it was heartbeat, breath, static between two people who shouldn’t have fit together but somehow did.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
A sudden cheer erupted from the far end of the room as the next DJ stepped up to the turntable. I.V’s expression softened in recognition before he leaned closer to Till, voice raised above the music.
“Looks like my friend finally showed up.”
He blinked. “Your friend?”
Before he could ask further, a new rhythm exploded through the speakers: fast, electric, hypnotic… and the crowd roared. Under the kaleidoscope of lights, a woman with long brown hair stood behind the booth, her tanned skin gleaming faintly, her gray eyes flashing like molten silver as she moved with the beat.
“Everyone, make some noise for DJ Hyuna!” someone shouted over the mic.
Till’s jaw almost dropped.
DJ Hyuna?!
She wasn’t just any DJ… she was one of the most influential figures in the fashion world, known for her dual career as a DJ and runway model. Her last collaboration with a designer brand had sold out in minutes.
“Wait… she’s your friend?” He asked, incredulous.
I.V’s lips twitched, amused. “I’d say she’s more of a menace, but yeah. Hyuna and I go way back.”
The other’s teal eyes widened. “That’s… insane.”
Hyuna’s presence was magnetic: commanding yet effortless. As she mixed, she lifted a hand to wave in their direction. I.V. lifted his drink slightly in greeting, and she grinned mid-set, sending him a wink before refocusing on the crowd.
When her set ended, the room thundered with applause. But Hyuna didn’t step down alone. Two others joined her as she made her way through the crowd.
The first was tall: taller even than her… with short brown hair, matching tanned skin, and the same sharp gray eyes that marked them as siblings. His sleeveless shirt revealed toned arms adorned with tattoos, and the confidence in his posture made him seem like he belonged on a stage even when he wasn’t performing. Also known as Hyunwoo.
The second… was Luka.
Till almost forgot to breathe.
He was shorter than both Hyuna and Hyunwoo, with skin like porcelain kissed by light, a blonde mullet tied into a half-bun that caught every glint of color from the strobe lights. His eyes: striking, golden, almost feline… seemed to glow with mirth as he leaned lazily against his boyfriend’s arm. His clothes were an eclectic mix of tailored chic and rebellion: a white sleeveless vest with shredded edges, wide-leg trousers, and silver chains looping at his hips.
Together, the three of them looked like a walking fashion campaign… which, in fairness, they were.
Till sat a little too stiffly on his stool, brain short-circuiting. Hyuna. Hyunwoo. Luka. All in one place.
He’d watched them in countless editorials, interviews, and fashion week clips. They were icons, legends in their field. And now they were strolling toward him like it was nothing… like the universe had casually dropped the entire upper echelon of the fashion world into a single rave.
Hyuna spotted I.V first. “Finally!” she shouted above the fading music, grinning as she and the others approached. “I was starting to think you ditched me again!”
“I would never,” the man replied, standing to greet her. There was a flash of genuine warmth between them… the kind reserved for people who’d shared both chaos and comfort.
Hyunwoo slung an arm lazily around his sister’s shoulders, flashing a smirk. “You say that, but last time you bailed halfway through my set.”
“That’s because your set was three hours long,” I.V shot back.
“It was a marathon,” Hyunwoo said proudly.
“It was torture,” Luka cut in, his voice smooth, laced with amusement. “But at least you looked hot doing it.” He turned his golden eyes toward I.V, smirking. “You brought someone?”
Till’s pulse stuttered.
The model glanced at him with that same small, knowing smile. “Yeah. This is Till.”
Three pairs of very famous eyes turned to him all at once.
Till, ever polite, stood immediately and bowed… perhaps a little too low. “It’s an honor to meet you all.”
Hyuna laughed lightly, waving a hand. “No need to be so formal, sweetheart. Anyone our I.V. brings around is already one of us.”
The man blinked. “I—um—thank you.”
Hyunwoo tilted his head, giving him a quick once-over. “Your fashion sense is great.”
Till flushed under the unexpected compliment.
Meanwhile, Luka leaned his chin on Hyuna’s shoulder, eyes still fixed on I.V with a teasing glint. “You finally brought someone out with you. Should we be jealous?”
The raven-head model rolled his eyes. “You’re always jealous, Luka.”
“True,” the blonde admitted easily, laughing. “But you can’t blame me. You never bring anyone.”
Hyuna perked up, grinning like a cat. “He has a point.”
I.V shot them both a dry look, though the faint blush dusting his ears betrayed him. “Don’t you three have each other to dance with?”
The female laughed outright, looping her arm through Luka as her brother slid into the blonde’s other side. “We do… so we’ll let you two enjoy the rest of the night.”
As they began to leave, Luka threw a lazy wave over his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Till. Hope you survive this one’s chaos.”
Said man managed a weak smile. “I’ll… try.”
Then they were gone… swallowed by the pulsing lights and shifting bodies on the dance floor.
The silver-head sat back down slowly, heart still racing. “You’re really friends with them?”
His idol shrugged like it was the most normal thing in the world. “We all kind of grew up in the same industry. Hyuna and Hyunwoo were already killing the runway circuit when I was still in training. Luka’s been working with me behind the scenes on shoots for years.”
Till shook his head in disbelief. “That’s… wow. They’re like—”
“Loud?” I.V. offered, smirking.
“I was going to say legends, but yes, loud too.”
That earned him a quiet laugh from the man, the kind that softened his sharp edges. “They’re good people. Family.”
Something about that answer made the other’s chest warm. Despite the fame, the aura, the impossible perfection… there was something human about the way I.V said it.
For a few moments, they sat together again… the music washing over them in waves, the city still humming just beyond the warehouse walls.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for the amazing love and support this fic has been getting. I appreciate it all.
Please look out for the next chapter update hopefully tmr ;)
Until then, have a wonderful day/night and take care <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 11: Tipsy Confessions Under Neon Lights
Summary:
The smaller man’s head rested lightly on the other’s shoulder, his body still leaning heavily.
For a moment, neither spoke. The world seemed suspended, muted, held together only by their shared warmth. The distant hum of the city below, the faint rustle of wind, and the occasional car horn were the only interruptions. Till’s breathing slowed, heavy yet steady, and slowly, inevitably, his eyelids grew heavy.
“Sleep,” his idol murmured softly, almost a whisper, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from his forehead. Till didn’t resist. His head settled more firmly against the man’s shoulder, and within moments, he was gone, the exhaustion of the night finally overtaking him.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The music behind them throbbed, a living pulse vibrating through the walls, but the world felt muted the moment I.V gently tugged Till’s hand.
“Come on,” he said softly, voice just audible above the bass. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
Till, slightly swaying in his seat, nodded in gratitude, feeling the warmth of alcohol and the haze of the rave pressing against him. He let the man lead him through the crowd, fingers intertwined, a strange safety in the contact. Even the world’s chaos: the flashing lights, screaming music, bodies pressed together… seemed to recede.
Outside, the cold night air hit them like a gentle shock, crisp and refreshing against his flushed cheeks. The neon from the rave spilled across the street, painting both of them in streaks of violet and cyan. I.V held their drinks in one hand and tilted his head to observe Till.
“You’re not really enjoying the alcohol, are you?” he remarked casually.
The other blinked at him, cheeks reddening further. “I… don’t usually drink,” he admitted, voice soft and slightly slurred. “I just… wanted to try.”
The model hummed, a low, approving sound. He draped the hand he was holding his with around his waist, the contact grounding him. “Here,” he murmured, guiding Till to take another sip. “Sway a little as you drink. Helps with the taste.”
Till hesitated only a moment, then tilted the cup and obeyed. He swayed slightly, the movement clumsy but deliberate. The bitterness of the alcohol hit his tongue, yet following his instructions somehow dulled it. He tilted his head back and took another sip, swaying more naturally now, laughter spilling from him in a soft, tipsy cadence.
“You’re doing great,” I.V commented, amusement in his eyes. “Almost like a pro.”
He grinned, teetering slightly on his feet. “I… think I’m… swaying?”
“You’re swaying,” the man replied, voice warm and teasing. His hand remained at his waist, fingers brushing lightly at his side as he guided him forward.
The tipsy haze loosened Till’s tongue, and he found himself recounting the previous night with Ivan: the bar, the paint, the chaotic fun. “I… went out with my friend,” he slurred slightly, gaze hazy. “By the… bar… the one you know… yeah, that one. We… we had fun.”
I.V. tilted his head, watching him carefully. “You had fun with your friend?”
He nodded, swaying slightly. “Lots of fun…” His lips curved into a lazy, drunken smile. “And… tonight… tonight with you… fun too.”
His idol’s eyes narrowed, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. He leaned closer, voice low and teasing. “So is tonight with me better… or not?”
Till squinted up at him, cheeks burning deeper, and slurred out his answer without hesitation. “I… can’t… choose… fun like… no other… both… both were… fun.”
The confession hung between them, sweet and clumsy. I.V’s heart skipped. He reached up slowly, cupping his face with one hand. The smaller man instinctively leaned in, sighing softly, voice fuzzy with intoxication. “Your… fingers… cold… but… so nice.”
The model blinked, astonished, before letting both hands cradle his cheeks. He brought Till’s gaze up to meet his own. “You’re… so cute,” he murmured, the words almost swallowed by the night air and pulsing bass.
Till flushed so violently he could feel it all the way to his neck. He tried to respond, tried to say something clever, but before he could, his stomach rebelled. His body tipped to the side slightly, away from his idol… and he vomited into the night air.
I.V was immediately steadying him with hands still on his waist. “Easy,” he said, calm and protective, brushing a stray lock of hair from the man’s damp forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
The pair stumbled back into the rave’s bathroom. The fluorescent lights flickered harshly, but the atmosphere was quieter, intimate, a cocoon against the outside chaos. Till slumped against the toilet, flushed and sweating, his breathing uneven.
“I… don’t feel… so well,” he admitted, swaying slightly. “Need… need to… throw up… but… can’t…” He groaned softly, voice thick with tipsy confession. “But… drinking with… you… was… so fun…”
I.V. chuckled softly, brushing his thumb along his damp temple. “You really shouldn’t overdo it,” he murmured, amusement and concern warring in his tone. “Even if it’s fun.”
Till groaned again, leaning his head against the wall of the cubicle. “I… feel… so nauseous…”
The model crouched slightly, resting a firm hand against the back of his neck. “Sorry in advance,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “I’m just going to help you a little but I hope you don’t make this a habit.”
Till’s head tilted slightly in confusion, but before he could say something, I.V’s finger gently pressed at his lips before slipping into his mouth to the back of his throat, coaxing the reflex to help him vomit. The smaller man squirmed instinctively, lips parting, head jerking slightly.
“Relax,” his idol whispered gently, his tone unshakable. “I’ve got you.”
Till could feel the smooth metal of I.V’s ring brushing against his tongue. His flushed face heated further at the sensation, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the man’s hands on his neck.
“You’re… so warm,” the model murmured, voice almost reverent, leaning close. “Your mouth is warm…”
Till’s drunken mind short-circuited. His hands rose reflexively to hold his wrist, sucking on the finger… the heat of skin against skin sending a thrill through him. A part of his idol was in him… right now…, he thought, caught somewhere between haze, intoxication, and the closeness of the man he had worshiped for so long.
I.V’s touch was gentle but deliberate, guiding him, steadying him. Till let his head tilt back more, eyes half-lidded, mind fuzzy. He could feel every pulse, every heartbeat, the subtle weight of the taller man leaning in, and it sent tremors through his own chest.
“I… can’t… help it…” he slurred softly, voice nearly inaudible, half-lost in the haze of alcohol, adrenaline, and the faint scent of cologne, smoke and leather still clinging to his idol.
I.V hummed, a quiet, approving sound, keeping his hands steady, watching Till’s lips twitch as he finally expelled the sickness. The relief washed over the smaller man in waves, body sagging slightly into the other’s supportive hold.
“You’re okay now,” the model murmured, brushing damp hair from his forehead again. “Better?”
Till nodded weakly, letting out a shivering laugh. “Better… thanks… you…” His lips curved, exhausted but genuinely grateful.
I.V smiled, small and soft, almost unguarded, finally allowing himself to relax just enough to watch the smaller man in peace. Even in the chaotic blur of neon lights and deafening music, even with alcohol and nausea, even with embarrassment and drunken slurs… the silver-head had given him something he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath for: a chance to be close, to share something raw and unfiltered with him.
Till, still flushed… leaned slightly against him, murmuring, “You… you’re… so nice…”
The man’s chest tightened in a way that was both terrifying and thrilling. “And you’re… remarkable,” he replied softly, keeping his hands on Till’s waist and neck, grounding him. “Even like this. Tipsy. Messy. Cute.”
Teal eyes fluttered closed, a weak laugh escaping him. The world spun gently, but in his idol’s presence, in his warmth and protective touch, it felt like the only place he could ever be steady.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the rave and the city fading behind the fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Till’s breaths slowed, his drunken haze beginning to lift slightly, and the model simply held him, letting the silence carry what neither of them could yet say aloud.
The smaller man’s lips quirked into a tiny, exhausted smile. “Tonight… really… so fun,” he whispered.
I.V. hummed softly in reply, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of the other’s head before letting him sag fully into his embrace. “It was,” he murmured. “We’ll make more nights like this… but next time, try not to get so drunk, okay?”
Till nodded weakly, leaning against him fully, head resting on his chest, still flushed, still tipsy, still entirely intoxicated… not just by the alcohol, but by the man holding him.
Outside the bathroom, the music thumped on. Inside, the two of them remained suspended, the world narrowed to warmth, heartbeat, and a closeness that left both dangerously aware of how much the night had changed them.
⸻
They finally emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, the chaotic bass of the rave fading behind them as the model guided him toward the stairs that led to the rooftop. The night air hit them again, crisp and calm, a welcome contrast to the cacophony below. The city sprawled beneath them, a sea of lights, and above, the stars glittered faintly against the ink-black sky.
I.V. led Till to a secluded corner, one he had access to through the rave club’s restricted zone. They leaned against the railing, sitting side by side.
The smaller man’s head rested lightly on the other’s shoulder, his body still leaning heavily.
For a moment, neither spoke. The world seemed suspended, muted, held together only by their shared warmth. The distant hum of the city below, the faint rustle of wind, and the occasional car horn were the only interruptions. Till’s breathing slowed, heavy yet steady, and slowly, inevitably, his eyelids grew heavy.
“Sleep,” his idol murmured softly, almost a whisper, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from his forehead. Till didn’t resist. His head settled more firmly against the man’s shoulder, and within moments, he was gone, the exhaustion of the night finally overtaking him.
The model remained still, his gaze sweeping over the horizon. The city beneath them was quieting now, neon fading against the approaching dawn. He watched Till, small and vulnerable in his arms, chest rising and falling with every peaceful breath. A quiet warmth spread through him, protective and tender, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. The stars above gave way slowly as the first tendrils of sunlight touched the skyline, golden light spilling over the city.
He loved his innocence… he really did. The way the smaller man wasn’t good at drinking, the way he hadn’t been to clubs and such before him, the way he didn’t smoke before him. It was cute… really cute… but he also wanted to break that innocence. Wanted to ruin him slowly and steadily. To have him all for himself, his mind… his body… his soul. All of it.
Two hours later, Till stirred, blinking against the brightness as the sun flooded the rooftop. His head was heavy, his body stiff, but the sensation of being held lingered. I.V stirred with him, shifting slightly so his shoulder remained a pillow.
“How’re you feeling?” He asked, voice low and careful, scanning his face.
“Migraine… but… I’m good,” the other murmured, voice still husky with sleep and the remnants of alcohol. He stretched lazily, blinking again against the sunlight.
The model hummed, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. The smoke curled lazily around them. Till watched the motion, then hesitated. “Can… I have one too?” he asked softly.
The man shook his head but extended the lit cigarette instead. “We’ll share,” he stated, tilting it slightly toward him, who accepted it gratefully. They inhaled one after the other, the quiet exhale mingling in the cool morning air, and for a moment, no one needed to speak.
After a few drags, I.V finally broke the silence. “So… are you… into anyone?”
Till flushed slightly, looking away before murmuring, “you… already know I’m into you.”
The man’s lips quirked, but his tone softened, “No… I mean, do you have a type? For a relationship.”
Till let out a thoughtful sigh, his gaze fixed on the rising sun, golden light catching the edges of his painted nails. “I… I do,” he said seriously, voice quiet but certain.
“Yea? What is it then?” The man asked, his attention on him.
“Someone who… doesn’t lie.”
I.V’s free hand clenched slightly at his side. He drew in a slow drag from the cigarette, eyes never leaving the other’s face. His heart felt tight… he was hiding this from him far too long now… he needed to tell him.
He had to tell him the truth.
He was going to.
Before things get more complicated.
“Till, I have… something I want to tell you,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.
The smaller man looked up and nodded.
“Okay… what is it?”
The model took a deep breath before starting.
“The thing is… I—“
Before he could continue, his phone vibrated sharply in his pocket. He sighed, answering quickly. “Where are you? You should be at home getting ready for your schedule,” his manager’s voice demanded.
His shoulders sagged slightly as he ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He looked at Till, a faint, rueful smile brushing his lips. “I… have to go,” he said softly.
Till’s gaze lifted, curious and slightly anxious. “What… what did you want to tell me?”
I.V shook his head gently, stepping closer. He cupped his cheek, thumbs brushing lightly over the flushed skin. “I forgot,” he whispered. “Now… get home safely.”
He lingered for a moment, their foreheads nearly touching, before pulling away and descending the rooftop stairs. Till watched him go, heart thrumming, the warmth of his presence still lingering as the sun rose fully over the city.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
See you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow:)
Until then, be safe and take care <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 12: The Dream of Unraveling
Summary:
“I know,” he whispered, voice breaking the moment like glass shattering. His gaze, once adoring and wide, was now steady… calm, but sharp. “I know your secret.”
I.V. froze, breath catching.
The other’s voice deepened, echoing oddly in the empty air. “You can’t hide it from me. You’re the same person. You’re Ivan.”
Onyx eyes widened, he felt his heart shattering in panic.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
It started with warmth.
I.V’s fingers were buried in the softness of black fabric, the scent of smoke and faint citrus lingering in the air. Till was there: flushed, eyes glassy, his breath trembling as he leaned in, their mouths moving against each other, tongues colliding hungrily.
Everything felt too surreal: the heat between them, the sound of heartbeats echoing in the distance, the low hum of anticipation that made every inch of their bodies ache. Their moans… the smaller man was panting out his name as he rode him, hands holding his shoulders and the model’s hands move to embed themselves on his waist with a firm grip.
The room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping mixed with the scent of plain arousal and heat.
The raven-head moved in to kiss him again but Till’s hands pressed against his chest, stopping him. Not roughly, but with finality.
“I know,” he whispered, voice breaking the moment like glass shattering. His gaze, once adoring and wide, was now steady… calm, but sharp. “I know your secret.”
I.V. froze, breath catching.
The other’s voice deepened, echoing oddly in the empty air. “You can’t hide it from me. You’re the same person. You’re Ivan.”
Onyx eyes widened, he felt his heart shattering in panic.
But before he could respond… before he could even breathe… a shrill sound split through the darkness.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
His alarm.
The man jerked upright, the silk sheets tangling around his legs, sweat clinging to the back of his neck. His chest heaved as the dream faded into fragments, leaving behind a hollow ache. The hotel suite around him was dimly lit, the blinds drawn, the faint buzz of morning city life seeping through the walls.
He rubbed a hand across his face and groaned softly before taking off the alarm notif from his phone.
It had felt so real.
⸻
An hour later, the camera flash exploded against his half-lidded eyes. The photoshoot had been going since early morning, the studio filled with assistants, stylists, and background chatter. He blinked through the harsh lights, moving automatically as the photographer called directions.
“Chin up… yes, perfect. Hold that. A little tilt… beautiful.”
His face did what it always did: every practiced angle, every look of detached allure that made I.V who he was. But his mind was elsewhere, trapped in the remnants of that dream.
“Break,” called the photographer.
He exhaled and stepped away from the set, sitting down in front of the mirror. His stylist, immediately swooped in with a puff of powder and a concerned frown.
“Dark circles,” she stated, swiping under his eyes. “You’re not sleeping properly, are you?”
The model hummed lowly, looking at his own reflection… his expression unreadable. “I am,” he said after a pause. “Just had a… bad dream.”
His manager, Sungjae… leaned against the vanity beside him, crossing his arms. “What kind of dream gives you that look?”
The raven-head smirked faintly. “The kind that feels a bit too close to real.”
The stylist laughed softly. “Relationship trouble?”
His gaze flicked up to meet hers in the mirror. He hesitated before saying quietly, “Something like that.”
Sungjae tilted his head, half-amused, half-curious. “Are you… actually seeing someone?”
Ivan’s lips curved slightly, but there was no mischief there… just truth. “No. Not yet.” He leaned back in the chair, eyes softening as he looked past his reflection. “But I am in love with someone.”
The stylist paused mid-powdering. His manager blinked.
“He’s… in my class,” he continued, his tone calm, almost reverent. “We’re working on a project together. He doesn’t know about me yet.”
“You’re serious,” Sungjae muttered, his tone shifting from playful to careful. “Ivan, you know you can’t afford to—”
“I know.” His voice was quiet, cutting through. “But I don’t want to lie to him. I want something real. Honest.”
The other sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “You signed a confidentiality clause, remember? If anyone finds out that you and I.V are the same person, that whole ‘anonymous enrollment’ deal at the academy goes up in smoke. That means your degree, your scholarship, the school’s protection… everything.”
Ivan nodded slowly. “I know,” he murmured. “But if it’s Till… I’ll risk it.”
The silence that followed was heavy. His stylist glanced between them but didn’t speak, merely continuing to fix his collar before retreating.
When the shoot resumed, his eyes looked different: sharper, heavier with decision.
As the camera flashed again, he thought about Till’s words on the rooftop.
[Someone who doesn’t lie.]
It echoed through his mind like a bell that refused to stop ringing.
⸻
Across the city, morning light spilled through the window of Till’s apartment.
He sat on his bed, phone clutched in hand, staring at the last message thread: Good night. Sleep well, cutie <3.
That had been days ago.
Since the night of the rave, I.V hadn’t sent a single word.
Till chewed the inside of his cheek, worry coiling in his chest. He couldn’t remember half the night… but he remembered him. The way he’d looked under the lights, the way his voice had softened when he’d said his name.
Had he said something wrong?
Heart hammering, he typed out a message.
@till_the_end: hey, i just wanted to say sorry if i said or did something stupid that night. I was drunk as you know. Just… get back to me when you can, please.
He hesitated before pressing send. Then tucked his phone away and got ready for school, trying to push down the anxious flutter in his chest.
When he arrived, Ivan was already there, sitting in his usual spot: back corner, head down, bucket hat on.
He blinked, hesitating. “You always sit there?”
The other looked up from his sketchbook, startled, his usual calm voice carrying a trace of amusement. “Yeah. Habit.”
Till frowned slightly. “We’re partners, though. Shouldn’t we sit together?”
For a moment, Ivan just stared at him. His throat bobbed once. Then, with an almost shy chuckle, he nodded. “You’re right.”
He gathered his things and came to sit beside the smaller man. The closeness was strange: familiar and dangerous all at once.
The professor arrived shortly after, clipboard in hand. “Good morning, everyone! The semester showcase is coming up… I hope you’ve finalized your concepts by now.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the class. Till and Ivan exchanged a look… they were close, but not quite done.
“Also,” the professor continued, “since this is a partnered assignment, one of you will be modeling the design during the presentation. Consider it part of your creative expression.”
Ivan’s hand froze mid-note.
Till immediately turned toward him, bright-eyed. “You’d be perfect for that, Ivan! You’ve got the height, the build—”
The man’s expression faltered, and he started shaking his head. “No, no, no. I can’t. I— I can’t even walk in a straight line. I’d trip over my own shoes.”
Till tilted his head. “You? Scared of a runway?”
“Stage fright,” he deadpanned, then added quickly, “Also, I have two left feet.”
The silver-head laughed softly. “Come on, you’d look amazing.”
But Ivan’s tone softened into quiet insistence. “You’d do better. You already have the presence for it.”
“Presence?”
He smirked faintly. “Try walking for me. Let’s see it.”
Till blinked but stood up, straightening his back. He took a deep breath and started walking: sharp, confident steps, shoulders loose, chin tilted slightly up. His movement carried an uncanny familiarity, his rhythm fluid yet precise.
Ivan’s heart skipped. He recognized it instantly… it was his walk. The same way he held himself when he walked as I.V. The same rhythm, same grounded sway, same deliberate posture.
He looked away before his lips betrayed him with a smile.
The smaller man turned, grinning a little. “How was that?”
He cleared his throat, trying to keep his composure. “Remarkable,” he said softly. “Your posture… fits the theme perfectly. Punk mixed with love, confidence, rebellion, self-expression. It’s… you.”
Till blinked, a small, pleased smile forming on his lips. “Then I’ll do it.”
Ivan nodded, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Relief flickered through him… relief and something else. Something dangerously tender.
As the class moved on, the two sat side by side again, quietly sketching, quietly thinking.
Till’s heart fluttered from his words.
And Ivan… behind his lowered hat and composed facade… could still see the memory of the other’s dream-version staring at him, whispering:
(“I know your secret.”)
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for stopping by and reading. I appreciate all the love and support this fic has been getting :)
I shall see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow so until then, please be safe and have a wonderful day/night wherever you are <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 13: Getting Closer To You
Summary:
Till followed his gaze and smiled, a little sheepishly this time. “Oh. Right. I didn’t cover them this time.”
The raven-head turned back to him slowly, his usual composure cracking for half a second. “You—uh—did that before?”
“Yeah,” he responded honestly, scratching at his neck. “Last time you came over, I panicked and covered everything up. But… I figured there’s no point hiding it. I’m a huge fan of I.V.”
Ivan blinked, trying to keep his expression neutral. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He managed a small, wry smile. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
By the time the bell rang, the classroom was filled with the quiet hum of sewing machines, pencils scratching on sketchbooks, and the low murmur of creative exhaustion. The two sat side by side, their table buried under fabric swatches, color palettes, and rough concept drafts that looked more like a warzone than a workspace.
Till leaned back, rubbing at his temple, eyes fixed on the final sketch. “So… nightlife as love,” he murmured. “Love that’s chaotic and loud, but real.”
Ivan looked at him from the side, his own pencil tapping lightly against the paper. “Love that burns bright,” he added, his voice low and thoughtful. “Even if it only lasts the night.”
The other hummed, gaze drifting over their combined sketch: the spiked leather contrasted with silk ribbon details, metallic studs softened by the gentle flow of tulle. Punk, but not destructive. Beautiful, but not fragile. A design that mirrored both of them.
He smiled, genuine and proud. “I think… we did it.”
When the professor approached, they straightened instantly. Till’s leg bounced under the table as she took the papers from their hands, flipping through the sketches in silence. Each second stretched unbearably long.
Ivan, ever calm on the outside, had his hand pressed flat on his thigh… his thumb tapping once, twice, three times.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the professor’s lips curved slightly. “This,” she said, tapping the edge of the paper, “is cool. A little daring, but it fits the theme. Nightlife as love… I like that. You two can start on the actual construction now.”
Till’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
A nod. “Yes. Good work.”
The man’s grin split his face in half. He turned immediately to Ivan, eyes sparkling, and before he could even think, he threw his arms around him.
The raven-head froze… not out of rejection, but sheer surprise. Till’s arms were tight around his middle, his warmth pressing into his chest. He smelled faintly like detergent and citrus shampoo. It was the kind of moment that made him forget how to breathe.
Then, just as suddenly, the other realized what he was doing and moved back, cheeks blazing red. “S-sorry,” he stammered, scratching at his cheek. “I just—uh—I got excited.”
Ivan blinked, and then his lips softened into a small smile. “It’s fine,” he said, voice low and gentle. “I’m glad you’re excited.”
Till cleared his throat and tried to recover his composure, pointing toward the door. “We should start looking for the fabrics and accessories. I want something that feels alive… reflective or iridescent, maybe. Something that catches light like glass.”
“Let’s go,” the other responded, his tone warm again.
They left campus together, their conversation spilling easily into the afternoon air.
⸻
The city buzzed around them as they walked down the main street, the setting sun painting streaks of orange and rose across the tall buildings. Till talked endlessly: about fabric finishes, metallic trims, dyeing techniques… his voice light, animated. Ivan listened, smiling faintly as the wind played with the edge of his bucket hat.
Every so often, the smaller man would look up at him mid-sentence, his eyes bright, and Ivan’s heart would stutter all over again.
He needed to tell him.
This was the moment… they were alone, in sync, happy.
He opened his mouth. “Till—”
But the other spoke over him, laughing suddenly as if remembering something. “This competition really means a lot to me,” he said. His tone softened, his usual confidence slipping away for a moment. “I really… I need to win this.”
He blinked. “You need to?”
Till hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s kind of personal.” His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. “It’s been my dream to see my designs worn by someone I admire. Someone who… changed my life.”
Ivan’s chest tightened painfully.
Till didn’t notice the flicker in his eyes. He just smiled, small and determined. “So I can’t mess this up. I’ve worked too hard for this chance.”
The raven-head’s throat went dry. The truth rose up, burning, but he swallowed it down.
If he told him now… if he knew he was I.V…. it would break his focus. It might even destroy the competition for him.
He couldn’t do that. Not when Till’s dream was so close.
So he smiled: a little strained, but sincere… and said softly, “Then I’ll make sure we win.”
Teal eyes softened, relief flickering through them. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
And somehow, that simple exchange carried more weight than either of them realized.
⸻
Their laughter carried down the street as they walked… what started as light teasing turned into a playful nudge, then another, until the silver-head half-ran ahead, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.
“Come on, slowpoke!”
Ivan chuckled. “You’re asking for it, you know that?”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” the other stated dramatically, dodging another playful shove.
They ended up laughing too loudly, dodging each other like kids until they stopped at a crosswalk, breathless. For a fleeting second, the world felt simple: just two people, moonlight glinting off the glass buildings, laughter echoing between them.
⸻
The days that followed blurred into a steady rhythm: mornings filled with classes, afternoons hunting down fabrics, evenings sketching and refining their concept.
Till learned that Ivan had an eye for texture even if he couldn’t sew to save his life. Ivan learned that Till worked himself into the ground when he was passionate. They found a strange kind of balance between them: chaos and calm, artistry and precision.
There were moments of quiet, too: late lunches at tiny street-side diners, fabric shopping under bright lights, the smaller man rambling about color theory while Ivan secretly memorized the way his mouth moved when he spoke.
But at night, when Till would check his phone, that familiar ache returned.
Still no message from I.V.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That he had work to do. That it was silly to expect anything more from someone like him.
But every time his screen stayed blank, a tiny piece of him dimmed.
⸻
Two months passed like that.
The final week arrived… the competition looming closer with every breath. Till’s apartment floor was covered in thread scraps, zippers, half-finished seams, and coffee cups. He had called the other over, voice laced with stress.
When Ivan arrived, he barely looked up from the mannequin. “You’re just in time,” he said, pinning the last corner of a fabric panel.
Ivan laughed softly, stepping out of his shoes. “You look like you haven’t slept in a day.”
“Try three days,” Till muttered, yawning. “I just need to get this seam perfect, and—”
He stopped mid-sentence when the man’s gaze drifted upward.
All around the room: every wall, every corner… was covered in I.V. posters. Glossy magazine spreads, event photos, even a cardboard cutout tucked beside his desk. His idol’s name gleamed from signed merchandise, limited edition prints, and countless open magazines.
It was a shrine.
Till followed his gaze and smiled, a little sheepishly this time. “Oh. Right. I didn’t cover them this time.”
The raven-head turned back to him slowly, his usual composure cracking for half a second. “You—uh—did that before?”
“Yeah,” he responded honestly, scratching at his neck. “Last time you came over, I panicked and covered everything up. But… I figured there’s no point hiding it. I’m a huge fan of I.V.”
Ivan blinked, trying to keep his expression neutral. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He managed a small, wry smile. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”
The smaller man laughed softly, turning toward his cluttered desk and brushing a hand over a stack of his idol’s magazines. “Yeah. He’s… I don’t know. He inspires me. Everything I do in fashion… it’s kind of because of him.”
Ivan’s throat felt tight.
Watching Till speak with such sincerity, eyes shining with admiration… for him… it was almost unbearable.
He smiled faintly, forcing himself to sound casual. “He must be… really proud to have a fan like you.”
Till turned, smiling brightly. “You think so?”
The other’s voice softened, honest slipping through despite himself. “Yeah. I know so.”
For a moment, they stood in the quiet hum of the apartment: fabric rustling in the background, soft city lights filtering through the window. Till’s smile lingered as he went back to adjusting the mannequin, humming under his breath.
And Ivan… now sitting beside him, felt his heart swell and break all at once.
He wanted to tell him everything.
But not yet.
Not when the finish line was so close.
He’d wait. Just a little longer.
Because for now, Till still looked at him with trust.
And that trust: fragile and golden… was the one thing he couldn’t bear to lose.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Will see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow :)
Ps: the story is gonna be more than 22 chapters as I’ve started to add more things… I am thinking it is gonna be closer to 30 chapters or so as I’ve already drafted a chapter 25 (and there still have more things to write about which would be in another chapter)
Other than that, take care and be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 14: Lies and Warmth
Summary:
Ivan couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that escaped him. “You’re really into him.”
“Of course I am!” Till stated, clutching the poster dramatically to his chest before dropping it back onto the pile with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. You probably think I’m crazy.”
“Not at all.” The raven-head shook his head. His voice softened, something fond threading through it. “It’s nice. Seeing you so passionate.”
Till blinked at him, then smiled… the kind that started small and spread slowly. “Thanks. It’s nice to have someone to talk about him with. You’re not weirded out?”
“No,” Ivan responded truthfully. “You can fanboy all you want around me.”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Teal eyes lit up with a glimmer that the raven-head had never seen before: bright, unguarded, almost childlike.
“So… can I fanboy for a bit?” Till asked, half-embarrassed, half-eager.
Ivan blinked. “Fanboy?”
“Yeah.” The smaller man rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “About I.V. I mean, I never had anyone to talk about him with. I’ve never gotten close to any to share my likes about… But you—” He grinned suddenly. “You’re chill. I feel like you won’t judge me.”
Ivan’s pulse skipped. “I… sure. Go ahead.”
He wasn’t prepared for the storm that followed.
Till shot up from his chair, heading straight for the small shelf by his bed, pulling down an armful of magazines and neatly folded shirts. “Okay, okay, first of all, this was his debut look: the ‘Rust and Velvet’ shoot. That stare? Those piercings? Nobody pulls that off like he does.”
The other, biting down a smile, nodded faintly. “Yeah. He’s… something.”
“Something?” Till repeated, scandalized. “He’s art, Ivan. Actual art.”
Said man laughed under his breath, hiding behind the rim of his bucket hat. Till continued like a man possessed: flipping through pages, pointing out lighting angles, the color palette of a specific spread. He spoke of the way I.V carried punk not as rebellion but as elegance, the way he made destruction beautiful, the way he felt alive through the camera.
As he spoke, Ivan’s cheeks grew warmer. Compliments meant for his public persona now sounded too close, too intimate.
“And look—” the smaller man shoved a poster forward, smiling so wide his teeth showed. “This one! I swear, when he smirks like that? That’s my inspiration board in human form.”
Ivan couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that escaped him. “You’re really into him.”
“Of course I am!” Till stated, clutching the poster dramatically to his chest before dropping it back onto the pile with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. You probably think I’m crazy.”
“Not at all.” The raven-head shook his head. His voice softened, something fond threading through it. “It’s nice. Seeing you so passionate.”
Till blinked at him, then smiled… the kind that started small and spread slowly. “Thanks. It’s nice to have someone to talk about him with. You’re not weirded out?”
“No,” Ivan responded truthfully. “You can fanboy all you want around me.”
The smaller man grinned, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Dangerous offer, you know. You might regret it.”
He chuckled. “I’ll take my chances.”
The warmth between them lingered, humming gently in the small apartment.
Then Till glanced at the clock and his eyes widened. “Oh, shit… it’s almost eight. You hungry?”
Ivan blinked. “A bit, yeah.”
“Good,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll make something.”
He moved toward the kitchen with easy confidence, opening cabinets and pulling out ingredients like someone who knew every inch of his space by heart. The other followed, leaning against the counter. The sound of sizzling oil filled the air as the silver-head dropped a handful of kimchi into the pan, the tangy aroma curling into the room.
“You cook a lot?” Ivan asked quietly, handing over the sesame oil when the man gestured.
“Yeah. It’s cheaper than ordering in, and… I like doing it. Helps me think.”
Till’s movements were efficient but unhurried: rice tossed with a flick of the wrist, bulgogi marinating in a separate bowl. Occasionally, he’d hum softly, tapping the spoon against the side of the pan. The raven-head watched, more fascinated by him than the food.
“Here,” he said, handing him a spoonful to taste.
Ivan leaned forward slightly, blowing on it before taking a bite. His eyes widened. “That’s… amazing.”
Till chuckled. “It’s just kimchi fried rice.”
“No, seriously,” he stated, half-laughing now. “You could open a restaurant. I’m not kidding.”
When they sat down to eat, the room filled with the comfortable clatter of chopsticks and the soft sound of quiet satisfaction. Ivan, however, quickly proved once again to be comically clumsy: his chopsticks slipping every few bites.
The other tried not to laugh. “You’re hopeless.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, fumbling again as a piece of bulgogi fell back onto the plate.
Till snorted, finally reaching over. “Here.” He picked up a piece neatly and held it out. “Open.”
Ivan froze. “What?”
“Don’t make me change my mind,” the smaller man said, trying to sound nonchalant even though his ears were pink. “You’re gonna starve at this rate.”
Ivan hesitated, then leaned forward, letting him feed him. The moment stretched: too slow, too close. He chewed, blinking hard, then laughed softly to hide his fluster. “Thanks.”
Till grinned. “See? Not that hard.”
“It’s… warm,” he murmured after a moment. “Your cooking. It reminds me of something.”
The other tilted his head. “What?”
“The outfit you made in first year. The one that was placed in the showcase in class. It feels like that.”
Till went still. His chopsticks paused mid-air. “…I don’t really like that outfit.”
“Why not?”
His gaze dropped to his plate. The air shifted… heavier now, quieter. “Because it looks like something my mom used to wear.”
Ivan didn’t say anything. He just waited.
“She got sick,” the man continued, voice low. “When I was twelve.” He set his chopsticks down, hands clasped together loosely. “She didn’t tell me. Not once. She’d smile, laugh, cook my favorite meals. And then one day she was just… gone.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the table, the glow of the kitchen light catching the faint tremble in his lashes. “I didn’t even know she was dying. She lied to me. Pretended she was fine. I found out from the doctor after she passed.”
The raven-head’s heart clenched.
“The thing that haunts me,” he continued softly, “is wondering how much of her smile was real. How much of it was fake so I wouldn’t worry. It made me hate lies. Even the ones meant to protect.” He drew a slow breath, steadying himself. “I promised myself I’d never feel that way again. That I’d rather hear an ugly truth than a pretty lie.”
Silence followed, thick but tender.
Ivan’s fingers tightened around his knee beneath the table.
Till’s voice steadied after a moment. “After she died, I bounced between relatives. None of them wanted me for long. So I started working part-time jobs, saved enough to move out. And then one night, my best friend dragged me to a fashion show… one I didn’t even want to go.”
His lips curved faintly. “That’s when I first saw I.V.”
Ivan’s heart skipped.
“I don’t know,” Till spoke with a soft laugh. “He walked out like he owned the world. Confident, bold, unapologetic. He wasn’t trying to fit anyone’s mold… he was the mold. Watching him made me feel like… maybe I could be someone, too.”
He looked up, his smile turning almost shy. “That was the night I decided to study fashion. The night he became my inspiration.”
The raven-head couldn’t breathe for a moment. The air between them felt charged: fragile and too heavy with meaning.
Till leaned back, crossing his arms loosely, his tone gentler now. “So yeah… I need to win this competition. Because someday, I want I.V to wear my design. That’s my dream.”
He met Ivan’s eyes: earnest, unguarded. “I’m only telling you this because I trust you. You’ve become… important to me.”
Said man’s throat worked silently.
Till smiled again, small but sure. “You’re a good person, Ivan. I know I can rely on you.”
Those words pierced deeper than the silver-head could imagine.
He smiled faintly, forcing his voice not to shake. “I’ll make sure you get there. I promise.”
The other’s expression softened. “Thanks.”
As he stood to clear the plates, Ivan stayed seated, his mind spiraling quietly.
He now understood. Why Till hated lies. Why he looked at the world with equal parts hope and fear.
He couldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet.
But he swore… when the competition was over, when the weight of their project lifted… he would tell him everything.
No more pretending. No more hiding behind smoke and neon.
Till deserved the truth.
And Ivan… I.V…. would give it to him, even if it cost him everything.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Will see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow. There is a possibility that I may not be posting everyday soon because like I mentioned in my notes in the last chapter, I have added new chapters to this story so I would like to edit it and proofread which would take some time… so yea.
But I will try my best to still try to post everyday. Until then take care and be safe <3
If not, then I apologize in advance :(
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 15: The Thread Between Us
Summary:
“Ah, Ivan!”
The other’s startled voice broke through the silence, and before he could even process what happened, a sharp sting ran through his finger. He blinked down… a bead of red welling at the tip of his thumb.
Till was already on him, sliding closer without a second thought.
“Seriously? Again?” The man said, half-exasperated, half-laughing as he reached for his hand. In his rush, he somehow ended up right in front of him, knees bent, settling lightly in Ivan’s lap without even realizing it.
The raven-head froze.
Till didn’t.
He caught his hand gently, shaking his head in amused disbelief. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, pulling the little box of bandages he always kept near closer. “You’d think after all this time you’d know how to dodge a needle.”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The small apartment glowed softly under the light of the desk lamp, shadows swaying gently across the walls covered in posters of I.V. and stacks of neatly folded fabrics. Outside, the night hummed with a distant city rhythm: cars passing, people laughing somewhere far away… but inside, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
The two sat side by side on the floor, surrounded by the chaos of creativity: rolls of fabric, spools of thread, scattered pins, and sketches layered over one another like pieces of a puzzle that only they could solve. The air smelled faintly of detergent, ink, and the remnants of dinner: warm, homey, grounding.
Till’s words from earlier still lingered between them. About his mother. About lies. About dreams that came from loss. Ivan’s chest still ached, heavy and constricted, as if the thread he’d been sewing had somehow wound itself around his heart instead.
He wanted to say something. To reach out. To hold him.
But the truth sat like a splinter under his tongue.
So instead, he kept his head down, hand moving mechanically as he tried to sew the zipper onto the half-finished jacket before him. His mind wasn’t in it. His stitches were uneven. His thoughts were loud.
And then—
“Ah, Ivan!”
The other’s startled voice broke through the silence, and before he could even process what happened, a sharp sting ran through his finger. He blinked down… a bead of red welling at the tip of his thumb.
Till was already on him, sliding closer without a second thought.
“Seriously? Again?” The man said, half-exasperated, half-laughing as he reached for his hand. In his rush, he somehow ended up right in front of him, knees bent, settling lightly in Ivan’s lap without even realizing it.
The raven-head froze.
Till didn’t.
He caught his hand gently, shaking his head in amused disbelief. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, pulling the little box of bandages he always kept near closer. “You’d think after all this time you’d know how to dodge a needle.”
Ivan wanted to laugh, to tease back, but the words wouldn’t come. His focus was entirely consumed by the warmth sitting across his legs, the soft pressure of Till’s knees bracketing his sides, the way his breath brushed faintly against his face every time he spoke.
It was too close. Too fragile. Too much like his dream.
Till, oblivious, hummed softly as he wrapped a small bandage around the man’s finger, his brows furrowed in concentration. His lashes were long enough to cast shadows over his cheeks, and his expression: the mix of care and focus… was enough to undo the other completely.
When he finally tied off the bandage neatly, he gave a satisfied smile. “There. All better.”
Ivan’s lips curved before he could stop them. “You really like taking care of people, don’t you?”
Till blinked, flustered, and looked away. “I just don’t like seeing people get hurt,” he mumbled.
His gaze flickered down then… to the raven-head’s hand, the one he was still holding. He turned it slightly, studying it, and laughed under his breath. “You have so many tiny cuts,” he said softly. “All from sewing?”
Ivan nodded, too quiet.
The silver-head’s expression softened. “You really are hopeless with your hands.”
Before the other could think of a reply, Till intertwined their fingers together to compare them, murmuring absently, “You have really big hands… look at that.” His tone was light, teasing… but his touch lingered. “Mine looks like a kid’s hand next to yours.”
Ivan chuckled, low and quiet. “They’re perfect for sewing, though,” he murmured back. “Your hands.”
The smaller man’s breath caught, just for a second, before he smiled again: shy, flustered. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Their gazes met for a moment too long. The world seemed to narrow… just them, the faint hum of the lamp, and the sound of their uneven breaths.
To break the tension, Till suddenly announced, “As thanks for all your hard work and for coming here tonight, I’ll give you a hand massage.”
Ivan blinked, startled. “A… what?”
“Sit still,” the other said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You’ve done so much hand sewing. It must hurt.”
Before Ivan could protest, Till had already laced their fingers again, thumb pressing gently into his palm, rubbing slow, careful circles.
At first, the man thought he might actually pass out. His pulse jumped under Till’s touch: each stroke of his thumb sending tiny ripples up his arm. It wasn’t even about the massage; it was the intimacy of it, the quiet focus the smaller man gave to every movement, the way his brows knit in concentration like he was trying to soothe away every cut and bruise on his hand.
Till smiled softly. “There. Better?”
Ivan swallowed hard. “Much better.”
Their eyes met again: warm and searching… and Till gave a small laugh to break the silence. “You know… my thoughts about you really changed, Ivan.”
Said man blinked. “Changed?”
“Yeah.” The other’s voice was soft now, like a thought half-spoken. “When we first met, I thought you were… well, kind of a disaster. Fashionless, clumsy, a little weird.”
Ivan laughed, the sound breaking the quiet like a melody. “I don’t think that’s changed.”
“It has,” Till said firmly, meeting his eyes. “You’re still clumsy, sure. But now I know you’re actually thoughtful. Kind. You make things feel… lighter.”
His words hit deeper than the man probably intended. Ivan smiled faintly, his chest tightening.
“I’m glad we’re partners,” Till said suddenly. “At first, I thought I had to do everything alone. But now…” He hesitated, then nudged the taller man’s shoulder. “Now I think I’d rather do it with you.”
Ivan looked at him quietly, his expression softening. “You’ve changed too, you know.”
The silver-head blinked, a little caught off guard. “Me?”
“Mhm.” The other’s lips curved into a small smile. “You used to be so distant. You barely even looked at me when we first got paired together. Now…” His voice trailed into something warm, teasing. “Now you’re… friendly. And kind of cute, actually.”
Till’s eyes widened slightly before a surprised laugh escaped him: light and genuine. A flush crept up the back of his neck, spreading across his cheeks. “Cute? Don’t start flattering me now,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a shy curve.
“It’s true,” the raven-head murmured, his tone half a whisper. “You’ve opened up so much. You laugh more now. You talk to me. It’s… nice to see.”
Till ducked his head a little, smiling to himself. “Well, that’s because I was—” he hesitated, fiddling absently with the hem of his sleeve, “I guess I was being careful before. Fashion school can be really competitive, you know? Everyone’s always trying to outdo each other. I didn’t want to get too close to anyone… or trust someone who might not mean it.”
His voice grew softer then, more sincere. “So I kept my distance. It was easier that way. But then you came along, all awkward and clumsy, and somehow…” He trailed off, glancing up with a faint grin. “You made it hard to stay guarded.”
Ivan’s chest swelled, a quiet warmth blooming beneath his ribs. He wanted to say something back… something equally open, equally true… but all he could do was smile.
“I’m glad I did,” he said at last, voice barely above a whisper.
Till’s smile deepened, eyes glinting with something that made his breath catch. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”
For a moment, Ivan couldn’t speak. All he could do was nod, slow and careful, as warmth spread through his chest.
He raised a hand… the same one the other had just bandaged… and gently patted Till’s waist in silent gratitude.
That simple touch seemed to wake the smaller man from the haze of the moment. He froze… and then realized, with dawning horror, that he was straddling Ivan’s lap.
“Ah—!” He scrambled up so quickly that he nearly tripped over a spool of thread. His ears burned red as he cleared his throat. “I—I didn’t mean to… I just—”
The other, hiding a laugh behind his hand, said gently, “It’s fine, Till.”
Said man’s blush deepened. “You could’ve said something.”
“I didn’t mind,” Ivan responded simply, and the honesty in his tone made Till freeze for a heartbeat. Then he turned away, muttering something about zippers and fabric glue to hide the tremor in his voice.
The raven-head smiled to himself, watching the smaller man flustered back as he sat down on the floor, rambling to fill the silence.
It was a tender, fragile thing… what hung between them. Something too delicate to name, too precious to risk.
Ivan wanted to hold it forever, even if it meant holding his tongue a little longer.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon, after the competition… he’d tell him everything.
But for now… for tonight… he would let himself simply exist in this quiet space, where laughter and warmth and the faint hum of sewing needles wove something between them that felt dangerously close to love.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thanks for reading today’s chapter and I shall see you hopefully in the next chapter update <3
Until then, take care and have a wonderful day/night :)
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 16: The Night Between Us
Summary:
The crowd thickened as he turned down a busier street, voices and laughter blending with the hum of traffic. He was halfway to the station when a flash of movement ahead caught his eye: a familiar silhouette in the crowd.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
The man’s hair was tied back into a low ponytail, black and red strands brushing the collar of a white t-shirt. Cargo pants hung on his hips, his posture effortlessly composed even in the simplicity of the outfit.
Till’s breath hitched.
No way…
He took a step forward before running towards the figure, his heart pounding. “…I.V.?”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
By the time they finished the last stitches, the moon was already high, a pale shimmer filtering through the thin curtains. The apartment was a mess of fabric and thread, sketches scattered on the table, empty mugs of cold coffee forgotten by the window.
Till stretched his arms over his head and let out a long sigh, the sound warm with relief. “Finally,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “We actually did it.”
Ivan nodded, quietly admiring the piece laid out before them… the final part of their competition outfit. Under the dim light, it looked almost alive, the combination of punk edge and romantic shadow glinting like night itself. The metal zips caught the glow, and the deep silk fabric shimmered like the sheen of moonlight on water.
It was… perfect. Their work. Their rhythm.
Till yawned, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s really late,” he murmured, glancing at the clock. 1:23 a.m. blinked back in faint red digits. “You should stay over. I don’t want you heading home this late.”
The other looked up, startled. “Stay over?”
“Yeah.” He stood, gathering a few spools of thread and tossing them into a box. “I don’t have a couch though, so we’ll have to share the bed.”
For a second, Ivan forgot how to breathe. His pulse skipped, then raced… fast enough that he was sure the silver-head could hear it if the room were any quieter.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice a touch too soft.
Till glanced at him, a teasing smile brushing his lips. “You think I’d let you sleep on the floor after having you come over last minute to help me finish this up?”
He hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. “Then… okay.”
The smaller man grinned and headed for the bathroom. “You can shower after me,” he called over his shoulder.
When he closed the door behind him, the soft hiss of water filled the silence. Ivan stared down at his hands… the same hands the other had bandaged and massaged a few moments before… and let out a slow, shaky breath.
He was in too deep.
By the time he finished his own shower, the bathroom mirror was fogged, his heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the steam. He dried his hair, secured his short raven wig carefully, and adjusted the bucket hat low over his eyes.
He told himself it was habit. Safety. But part of him knew it was fear.
When he stepped back into the bedroom, Till was already under the covers, scrolling idly on his phone. He looked up and blinked when he saw him… fully dressed with that ever-present bucket hat.
“You’re… sleeping in that?” He asked, half a laugh escaping him.
The man hesitated, then nodded. “I’m… shy without it.”
The other tilted his head, bemused. “You’re shy about your hair?”
Ivan gave a small, awkward smile. “Something like that.”
Till stared for a moment longer, then gave a small nod, his expression softening. (He must be balding), he thought with a pang of sympathy. Out loud, he only said, “Alright then, bucket hat stays.”
He reached out, flicked off the lamp, and the room sank into silver-blue dimness.
They lay on opposite sides of the bed, backs turned, a small canyon of space between them. The sheets were cool against the raven-head’s skin, and he tried to focus on the rhythm of his breathing: slow, steady, calm.
But it was impossible not to notice the soft rustle of Till shifting, or the faint scent of his shampoo, or the warmth radiating across the small gap that separated them.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Then—
“Ivan,” the smaller man whispered.
Said man blinked, staring into the dark. “Yeah?”
“Are you still awake?”
“Mm.”
There was a pause, a soft exhale. “What I’m about to tell you…” Till’s voice was quiet, almost trembling. “Forget it in the morning, okay?”
Ivan’s chest tightened. “Okay.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then the other spoke again, his tone fragile. “You might not believe me, but… I’ve met I.V. in person. Twice.”
Ivan’s breath caught.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“I met him at a small bar first,” Till continued, his words falling softly into the dark. “He had post a story on Instagram and I recognized the background as the bar down the street so I went there on a whim and I actually met him—” he laughed under his breath, a sound that broke halfway. “He actually talked to me. Can you believe that? I thought I was going to die right there.”
The raven-head’s throat ached. He could picture it: his own words, said carelessly, his smile that day, not realizing how deeply they might have reached.
“The second time,” Till continued quietly, “was at a rave he actually personally invited me to. I met his friends and we talked again. He was… kind. Not like other celebrities. He didn’t treat me like I was just another fan. He called me cute. We laughed. He…”
Till’s voice faltered.
“…He made me feel seen,” he finished in a whisper.
Ivan’s hands clenched under the blanket.
He wanted to turn. To say something… anything… but his throat had closed up, and all he could do was listen.
“And then…” the smaller man’s tone cracked, his voice small now, vulnerable. “Then he stopped messaging. It’s been two months. And I—”
He drew in a shaky breath. “I think it’s my fault. Maybe I said something stupid that night. I was drunk so I barely remember but maybe I was annoying. Maybe he realized I wasn’t worth the time.”
The other turned then, slow and silent, until he faced Till’s back: the small, trembling outline in the dark.
“I don’t even know if those moments were real,” Till whispered, voice breaking. “Maybe it was all fake. Maybe he just… pretended to care.”
The sound of his muffled sob reached Ivan’s chest like a blade.
He couldn’t stay still anymore.
Quietly, hesitantly, he reached out. His hand hovered for a moment above his shoulder: uncertain… before he finally closed the distance and pulled him close.
Till tensed at first, startled, but the raven-head didn’t let go. His arms wrapped around him from behind, strong and trembling all at once, pressing him into the steady beat of his heart.
He didn’t speak. There were no words that could fix this. Only warmth. Only the truth of his touch.
The smaller man’s breath hitched. Slowly, he turned in his hold, burying his face into his chest. Ivan held him tighter.
The air filled with quiet sounds: Till’s broken sniffles, Ivan’s shaky exhale, the movement of bedsheets as they shifted closer.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered finally, his voice raw.
Till only shook his head against his chest, gripping the fabric of Ivan’s shirt. “It just hurts. I know it’s stupid, but it hurts.”
“It’s not stupid.”
The other let out a trembling laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Why are you always so kind?”
Ivan didn’t answer. He just held him, his chin resting lightly atop silver hair, his fingers gently brushing the nape of his neck.
It felt like a confession without the actual words.
The minutes stretched, heavy and silent, until gradually the tremor in Till’s shoulders eased. His breathing evened out, his fingers still loosely fisted in his shirt.
The man didn’t move. He couldn’t. Every fiber of him screamed to protect this moment: to let the other rest, to take his pain if he could.
He brushed a thumb over Till’s temple, slow and tender, and whispered into his hair, “Sleep.”
And Till did.
Sometime later, he drifted off too, the warmth of their shared breath lulling him into a quiet, dreamless sleep.
⸻
When morning came, light filtered softly through the curtains… pale gold brushing across the tangled sheets.
Till stirred first. His lashes fluttered as he inhaled, and a familiar scent flooded his senses: faint cologne, a trace of smoke..
For a second, in the haze between dream and waking, his heart leapt. I.V.
His eyes flew open.
But there was no one beside him. The other side of the bed was empty, sheets slightly rumpled, still warm.
He blinked, sitting up. “…Ivan?”
No answer.
Then he spotted the note on the bedside table.
The handwriting was untidy and slanted.
“Thank you for letting me stay over. I didn’t want to wake you, so I left early. I bought breakfast… it’s on the kitchen table. See you later, Till :)
— Ivan”
The man read it twice before the corners of his mouth curved faintly upward.
He set the note down and fell back onto the bed with a sigh, pressing his face into the pillow. It smelled like the raven-head: that subtle scent that somehow felt safe.
He closed his eyes, breathing it in. (What are you doing to me, Ivan…?)
After a few minutes, he finally dragged himself up, stretching and yawning. He wandered into the kitchen where, sure enough, a paper bag waited on the table… still warm. Inside were two sandwiches and a small sticky note:
“Eat before it gets cold :)”
Till smiled, soft and tired, and obeyed.
After breakfast… he simply sat there, staring at the note, his chest still heavy from the night before: from the man’s arms, from the silence that said more than any words could.
He reached for his phone, half-expecting a message from him, but there was none. Instead, a single notification blinked on the screen: [Miziii ♡ calling…]
He laughed softly, then answered, “Miz?”
“Finally!” came her bright, melodic voice through the line. “You’ve been MIA for months, mister. I thought you eloped or something.”
He let out a soft snort, “You know I’d at least invite you if I did.”
“Uh-huh. Get dressed. We’re catching up. Café Rue, fifteen minutes.”
Before he could protest, she hung up.
He blinked at his phone, sighed, and smiled faintly. “Still bossy as ever.”
⸻
Café Rue was the same as always: tucked at the corner of an old street, the smell of roasted beans and cinnamon thick in the air. The bell chimed softly as he pushed the door open, and there she was: his best friend, impossible to miss, her long pink hair cascading over her shoulders, her bright green eyes flicking up from her phone as soon as she spotted him.
“Tillie!”
She jumped up and threw her arms around him before he could react. He laughed, hugging her back tightly, the familiar warmth of her presence easing something in his chest.
“You look tired,” she said, pulling back to inspect him. “Don’t tell me fashion school’s finally eating you alive.”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted, following her to their usual booth by the window.
They ordered coffee and pastries, and for a while, it was easy: talking about little things, classes, gossip from the industry, laughing about the time Mizi accidentally dyed her hair neon green.
But then she leaned forward, chin resting in her palm. “Alright,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully. “You’ve been way too vague about your personal life these couple months. Spill it. What’s been going on with you?”
Till hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
The woman grinned. “I already do. Now talk.”
He exhaled and started from the beginning: how he met I.V. some months ago, how surreal it was, how kind the model had been. He told her about the messages, the late-night conversations, the quiet tension that built between them, and finally… the silence.
Mizi’s eyes widened with every word. “You’re kidding. You actually met I.V.? The I.V.?”
He nodded, his cheeks warming. “Twice, actually.”
She let out a low whistle, leaning back. “Okay, that’s insane. Also, you do realize you’ve been living my dream, right?”
Till blinked. “Your dream?”
Mizi smirked. “You know Sua, right?”
“His sister?”
“Yes!” She pressed a hand dramatically to her heart. “Actress, model, literal goddess. I swear if I ever meet her, I’ll combust on the spot.”
Till laughed. “You’ve got a crush on her?”
“Biggest crush,” she said without hesitation. “I’d marry her in a heartbeat.” Then her expression softened as she looked at him. “But you… you’ve got it bad for I.V., huh?”
The laugh faded from his lips. He stared down at his hands. “It’s been over two months since he last replied,” he said quietly. “I keep thinking I must’ve done something wrong. Or maybe he realized I was just a fan and didn’t want to keep pretending.”
His friend’s smile fell. “Oh, Tillie…”
She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “Hey. You don’t know what’s going on with him. People like that… they’ve got crazy lives, tight schedules. It doesn’t mean he forgot you.”
He gave a small, tired smile. “You always know what to say.”
“I’m your best friend,” she said simply. “That’s literally my job.”
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping coffee. Outside, the city glowed in the late morning light, people passing by, laughter floating in through the open window.
When they finally parted ways, she hugged him again, her voice warm against his ear. “Call or text me if you ever get another message from him, okay? Or if you just need to vent. Promise?”
“Promise,” he said softly and scrunched his nose in amusement just as she smothered his face in kisses before finally letting him go.
⸻
The air had cooled by the time he left the café, clouds drifting lazily across the sky. He walked slowly, hands tucked in his pockets, his mind drifting back to her words.
[Maybe he didn’t forget you.]
He wanted to believe that.
The crowd thickened as he turned down a busier street, voices and laughter blending with the hum of traffic. He was halfway to the station when a flash of movement ahead caught his eye: a familiar silhouette in the crowd.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
The man’s hair was tied back into a low ponytail, black and red strands brushing the collar of a white t-shirt. Cargo pants hung on his hips, his posture effortlessly composed even in the simplicity of the outfit.
Till’s breath hitched.
No way…
He took a step forward before running towards the figure, his heart pounding. “…I.V.?”
The man stopped. Turned.
And when their eyes met, the world tilted.
It was really him.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved: both frozen in that sudden, fragile space between recognition and disbelief.
The smaller man’s pulse roared in his ears.
“I.V.,” he whispered again, softer this time, as if afraid the moment would vanish if he spoke too loud.
The model’s expression shifted: surprise, guilt, something unreadable flickering across his face. His lips parted, but no words came.
Till took a step closer. The city noise dimmed around them.
Two months of silence hung heavy between them, unraveling in the weight of that single gaze.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you a ton for reading and enjoying this story so far guys, I really truly appreciate it so much :)
I shall see you all in the next chapter. Please feel free to comment your thoughts and such but until then, have a wonderful day/night and be safe wherever you are <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 17: The Distance Between Smoke and Light
Summary:
I.V. seemed relaxed, but his gaze was softer than usual, watching Till from beneath the faint fringe of hair that fell over his eyes. He could sense the nervous energy radiating from the smaller man: the way his fingers kept tracing the rim of his glass, the way his gaze flickered toward him and away again.
When Till lifted the drink again, his hand moved without thought, long fingers curling over the top of the glass to stop him.
The silver-head blinked in surprise, eyes meeting his idol’s.
“Take it easy,” he stated gently. “You’ll burn your throat if you keep drinking like that.”
“I—I’m fine,” Till said, flustered. “I just… needed something to do with my hands.”
I.V. chuckled softly, a sound low and smooth like velvet. “You don’t have to force yourself. Just… breathe.”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The thrum of bass rolled through the club like a heartbeat: steady, intoxicating, a pulse of light and sound that wrapped itself around every movement, every breath. The neon strobes painted everything in shades of pink and electric blue, and in the haze of cigarette smoke and muffled laughter, Till sat across from I.V., a glass of whiskey in his hand that trembled ever so slightly.
He hadn’t thought this far ahead.
He hadn’t even meant for this to happen… not really. One moment he was walking towards the station through the busy streets, the next he was calling out a familiar name. The one he hadn’t called out in months. The one that made his heart trip in his chest. And when the model turned, his face half-hidden under the soft glow of the sunlight, it was as if the world stilled for a second.
Now, here they were… sitting at the same rave club as before, surrounded by people who didn’t know that the space between them felt like both a reunion and an apology.
Till’s throat felt dry. He took a small sip from his drink, hoping it would loosen the tightness coiled inside him, but it only burned down to his stomach. Across from him, I.V. sat casually, his posture graceful even in stillness. A cigarette rested between his fingers, the ember flaring each time he brought it to his lips.
The smaller man glanced at him again, then looked away, cheeks heating. It had been two months since he last saw him… two months since that night he could barely remember, two months of rereading every message, every silence, wondering what he did wrong.
He hadn’t expected to see him again, and certainly not like this.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come with me,” he muttered, breaking the silence, his voice almost drowned by the music.
I.V. exhaled a ribbon of smoke, the corner of his mouth quirking faintly. “Neither did I. Guess I was curious.”
That smile… that calm, confident half-smile, made Till’s stomach do a strange, fluttering twist. He swallowed hard and nodded, focusing on his glass again.
Awkward didn’t even begin to describe this.
He told himself he’d invited the man to make things right… to apologize if he had said something stupid when he was drunk that night… but the truth was, part of him just wanted to see him again. To know that the other who’d become both his muse and his mystery hadn’t just vanished into smoke and silence.
But now that he was sitting right across from him, words refused to come.
I.V. seemed relaxed, but his gaze was softer than usual, watching Till from beneath the faint fringe of hair that fell over his eyes. He could sense the nervous energy radiating from the smaller man: the way his fingers kept tracing the rim of his glass, the way his gaze flickered toward him and away again.
When Till lifted the drink again, his hand moved without thought, long fingers curling over the top of the glass to stop him.
The silver-head blinked in surprise, eyes meeting his idol’s.
“Take it easy,” he stated gently. “You’ll burn your throat if you keep drinking like that.”
“I—I’m fine,” Till said, flustered. “I just… needed something to do with my hands.”
I.V. chuckled softly, a sound low and smooth like velvet. “You don’t have to force yourself. Just… breathe.”
That single word carried warmth. Till blinked, the embarrassment softening into something quieter… gratitude, maybe. He nodded. “Alright.”
For a moment, they sat in silence again. The air between them was thick with unspoken things… the kind that clung to your ribs and refused to leave.
It was the model who spoke first, voice low enough that Till had to lean forward slightly to hear him. “So… how did you even find me out there? The street was packed.”
The other man looked up, startled by the question, then smiled sheepishly. “I just… knew it was you. I think I can spot you from an even larger crowd… from the way you walked.”
“The way I walked?” I.V. echoed, brow lifting with amusement.
“Yeah,” the other responded, eyes darting away again. “You walk like… like you own the place. Like the ground was made for you. It’s… different from everyone else.”
For a second, the idol said nothing. He simply watched Till’s flushed face, the way his words stumbled over sincerity. It hit him unexpectedly… the realization that when he was Ivan, he intentionally erased that confidence, that distinct rhythm. He walked with a slouch, hid behind oversized clothes and quiet gestures. But here, as I.V., the world expected him to command attention.
Maybe that was why the smaller man hadn’t recognized him yet.
He found himself smiling faintly at the thought… at the irony of sitting across from the man who could so easily see through masks of design and fabric, yet couldn’t see through the one sitting before him.
Till, mistaking the silence for discomfort, rushed to speak. “I—I’m sorry, that was weird, wasn’t it? I should stop saying weird things. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”
I.V. leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, his cigarette now stubbed out in the ashtray. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he said softly. “It’s… actually kind of nice to be noticed that way.”
The silver-head froze, the tips of his ears burning. He wanted to sink into the floor. Instead, he took another sip… too fast this time… and in his nervousness, his hand nudged the glass when he was placing it back down just enough for it to tilt. The liquid splashed forward, dark amber staining the pristine white of I.V.’s t-shirt.
“Oh my god—” he gasped, jumping up. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
The model looked down at the spreading stain, then up at the other’s horrified expression. His lips twitched before he let out a quiet laugh, low and genuine. “Well… guess you just made it more stylish.”
Till blinked at him, stunned by the ease of his response, but his guilt wouldn’t settle. “No, no… it’s not fine! I’m pretty sure that’s designer, don’t worry… I’ll fix it, I swear!”
Before I.V. could protest, the smaller man grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the restroom at the back of the club. The sudden touch startled the model: warm fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling him through the crowd and into the quieter, dimly lit hallway.
In the bathroom, Till rushed to the sink, grabbing tissues and dabbing frantically at the shirt. But instead of fading, the stain only spread, a large amber smudge across the soft cotton.
His panic deepened. “No, no, it’s worse now!”
I.V. leaned back against the counter, watching him with mild amusement. “You know, you don’t actually have to—”
“It’s not fine!” Till cut in, still trying. “This is your shirt, and I made a mess of it, and—”
The raven-head’s laughter stopped him mid-sentence. The sound was light, unexpected. “Till,” he said gently, reaching out to still his hand. “It’s just a shirt.”
Said man looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parting slightly. I.V.’s hand lingered over his for a moment, the warmth of his touch grounding. But then, in that space between a heartbeat and the next, Till’s eyes softened. He saw not just the idol… but a man, real and close, with laughter in his voice and smoke in his scent.
“I’ll get it out,” he murmured, stubbornly. “I promise.”
And before the model could stop him, the other grabbed his wrist again, dragging him out of the bathroom, out through the back exit into the cool air. They walked quickly, weaving through the narrow alley until they reached a small convenience store glowing under harsh fluorescent lights.
I.V. stood beside him as he scoured the aisles, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. The scene was absurd… a world-famous model following a flustered fashion designer through detergent shelves at broad daylight.
Till, however, was on a mission. He picked a bottle of stain remover, holding it up triumphantly before realizing… with a slow, dawning horror… what he’d just done.
He’d dragged his idol to a convenience store.
“Um,” he muttered, trying to recover his dignity. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—uh—kidnap you.”
The man laughed, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the edges. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
Till ducked his head, cheeks burning, and went to pay. The cashier barely looked up, scanning the item as I.V. leaned casually against the counter, drawing more than a few second glances from other customers. Even in plain cargo pants and a white t-shirt, his presence was magnetic. The harsh lights only made his features sharper, more striking… as though he didn’t belong in such an ordinary place.
Till risked a glance, heart skipping. (Even convenience store lighting can’t make him look bad… unfair.)
When they stepped outside again, the air was cooler, calmer… the city alive but softened by distance. He handed the bottle to him. “Here. You just have to soak it for a few minutes and rinse… don’t rub it too hard or it’ll fade.”
The model tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You sound like you do this often.”
“I used to stain my clothes a lot when I worked part-time,” Till said quickly, eager to distract from how warm his face felt. “So, yeah… I got good at fixing things.”
“I’ll bet you did,” I.V. murmured.
The smaller man blinked at the tone: warm, teasing… and quickly cleared his throat. “Anyway, I can—uh—I can actually do it for you. You know. Since I’m the one who spilled it.”
I.V. raised an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you planning to do that?”
The smaller man looked around, his eyes catching on a big sign down the street. “There! They should have laundry services, right?”
I.V. followed his gaze… and froze.
The gigantic red sign didn’t read Laundry Service. It read “Red Thorn Hotel.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The noise of the city seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them standing under the sun: the model with one brow arched, Till looking obliviously hopeful.
I.V. turned to him, smirking. “You do realize what that is, right?”
The other blinked. “A… hotel?”
“A love hotel,” he corrected smoothly, leaning in just enough for his voice to drop lower. “You sure you know what you’re suggesting?”
Till’s mind blanked. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, into his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. “I—uh—no, I mean…”
I.V. laughed softly, the sound lazy, amused. He shifted closer… close enough that the silver-head could feel the warmth radiating off him, could smell the faint blend of smoke and cologne that always seemed to cling to him. A hand rested briefly at his waist, firm but careful, drawing him in until their foreheads were nearly touching.
“Unless,” the model murmured near his ear, “you do know what kind of place that is.”
Till’s heart hammered so loud it drowned out everything else. His breath hitched, caught between nerves and something heavier: a pull he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t resist. He met his gaze, wide and uncertain, yet there was no fear there. Only honesty.
I.V. watched him for a heartbeat longer before the corner of his mouth lifted, that teasing spark returning to his eyes as he stepped back. “I’m kidding,” he said softly, voice threaded with amusement. “Relax, I’m not about to drag you into a scandal with me.”
But the joke didn’t land the way he expected. The smaller man didn’t laugh. Instead, his lips parted… words slipping out before he could think twice.
“I don’t mind,” he said, barely above a whisper.
The air between them shifted.
I.V. froze, the teasing curve of his lips faltering as surprise flickered across his face. For a moment, the confident ease he always carried slipped, replaced by something quieter, something unsure. He searched the other’s expression, trying to find a trace of hesitation… but all he found was sincerity, fragile and trembling, but real.
“…Are you sure?” he asked finally, his voice lower now, less teasing, almost careful.
Till swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly around the bottle of stain remover he took back. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “It’s the closest place where we can get the stain out… right?”
I.V. looked at him for another long moment before letting out a soft exhale: part disbelief, part admiration. “Right,” he murmured, his lips curving into the faintest smile.
He tilted his head toward the sign, the red sign reflecting faintly in his eyes from the sun. “Then let’s go.”
The smaller man nodded, clutching the bottle a little tighter as they began walking side by side toward the entrance. The sound of their footsteps echoed against the pavement: steady, deliberate… until the door of the hotel swung open and the warm light inside spilled out to meet them.
And together, they stepped in.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading, I shall see you in the next chapter :)
Until then, have a wonderful day/night <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 18: A Night Between Trust and Temptation
Summary:
I.V’s eyes softened, watching silently. (He doesn’t know… he trusts me so completely…) The thought both thrilled and terrified him. (I want to hold him, to keep him close, to tell him everything… but I can’t. Not yet.)
Till’s small voice broke through his reverie. “All clean,” he said softly, holding up the shirt with a triumphant smile.
The other’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, voice low and intimate. “That’s perfect.”
Teal eyes flickered to him, heart hammering, and he held his gaze, unflinching, the intensity in his onyx eyes grounding them both in a moment that felt suspended outside time.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The elevator ride was quiet, save for the faint hum of its mechanics. Till shifted the bottle in his hands, feeling the weight of the night pressing softly against him. He had agreed to this: to follow his idol into a love hotel… without a second thought. And now, as the door slid closed, his chest fluttered with an unfamiliar tension.
I.V, leaning against the corner of the elevator, observed him carefully. (He trusts me too easily,) he thought, his gaze tracing the subtle nervous movements of the other’s fingers. Every little twitch, every hesitant blink spoke volumes to him. Till’s innocence, so pure and unguarded, was intoxicating… and it made the model’s pulse quicken. He wanted to warn himself, to remind himself that there was a competition in just a few days. But the pull of this moment, the way Till had stepped into his world with nothing but trust… it was dangerous.
“Do you know what services a love hotel offers?” He asked casually, though there was a subtle edge to his voice.
The smaller man blinked, the flush creeping up his neck, a shade of pink blossoming over his cheeks. “Um… n-no,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Could… could you teach me?”
The words were soft, almost shy, and they sent a flicker through I.V’s chest. His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam dancing across them as he considered how innocent Till was. He wanted to ruin that innocence. Not in a cruel way, but in the way that only he could… with the weight of himself pressed close, his presence overwhelming yet impossible to resist.
(If it wasn’t for the fashion competition,) he thought, (I’d kiss him right now. I’d hold him close and let the world slip away.) But he had to control himself. The competition was too near, and the other’s focus mattered. So he swallowed the desire, letting it simmer quietly beneath his composed exterior as they reached the reception.
The key slid across the counter with a soft clink, the small metallic token of permission that made Till’s heart race a little faster. “Room 205,” the attendant said, voice fading as they walked away.
The corridor was dimly lit, soft pinks and reds reflecting off the polished floors. The smaller man’s hands fidgeted with the bottle again, and I.V noticed, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. He reached out once, briefly brushing his hand, a subtle reminder that he was there, that he hadn’t left him alone in this uncertain moment.
As they approached the door, the model’s thoughts wandered again, quietly dangerous. (If I wasn’t I.V… if I wasn’t Ivan… I could show him how much I want him. I could kiss him, press him against me, let him feel exactly how I feel.) But instead, he merely swiped the keycard and pushed the door open, stepping inside first.
Till’s eyes widened immediately. He stepped into a room unlike anything he’d experienced. The lighting was soft and intimate, casting a warm glow over everything. His gaze flickered across the heart-shaped bed, then to the rose petals scattered like delicate confetti. His fingers brushed a few, lingering for a moment, marveling at their softness.
“Wow…” he breathed, taking a small step forward, his eyes scanning the assortment of objects on the bedside table. Snacks, small packages, and something that looked like a tea bag caught his attention. “I’ve… I’ve never seen this kind of tea bag before,” he murmured, picking it up with tentative curiosity.
I.V chuckled, clearing his throat. “That’s not a tea bag, it’s lotion” he said, voice soft but threaded with amusement. Till froze mid-motion, his eyes snapping up to meet his.
His hand jerked as if he’d been burned, the flush on his cheeks spreading across his neck and ears. “It’s… lotion?!” he whispered, dropping it back onto the table with exaggerated care.
The raven-head laughed, shaking his head. “Yes,” he said, still smiling, though there was a sharp glint of amusement in his eyes. “And those over there… the ones marked ‘Small,’ ‘Large,’ and ‘XL’… you probably shouldn’t touch them either.”
Till’s face turned scarlet, and he whirled to look at I.V with wide, startled eyes. “W-what?!”
The man raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax,” he said, chuckling softly. “You don’t gotta think about it… unless you want to.”
The silver-head’s thoughts scattered in every direction, and he cleared his throat, flustered. “I… I just… can we… can we start with cleaning the shirt?”
The request sounded almost pleading, and I.V’s amusement softened into something warmer. “You’re cute,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. Then, still chuckling, he shrugged off his stained, white shirt and handed it to him. “Here,” he said. “Do your worst.”
Till’s breath hitched as he took the shirt, the warmth of I.V’s skin lingering in the air. He hesitated, glancing up, and his gaze fell on his exposed form. His idol… the man he had admired for years, the personification of everything he’d ever wanted to emulate in fashion and style… stood before him shirtless, a silver heart necklace clinging to his neck. The muscles beneath his skin were sculpted, flawless, yet what drew his eyes most was a small glimmer near the navel: a piercing.
He froze and almost forgot to breathe. The detail was intimate, personal, and entirely unexpected.
I.V noticed instantly. His hand twitched, just slightly, almost instinctively covering the area with the robe he had pulled on, though he left it half-open to keep his chest revealed. (Don’t), he thought. (Not now, Till.)
Said man, however, mistook the glance for curiosity rather than suspicion. “Oh,” he murmured, voice quiet, almost conversational. “I have a close friend who has one too. It’s… super cool.”
I.V’s chest tightened. Relief mixed with guilt in a strange, stinging way. (Thank God he didn’t figure it out… but am I lying by omission?) he thought, blinking quickly to regain his composure.
Turning back to the task, the smaller man walked to get a bowl with water and dipped the shirt in, beginning to work carefully to remove the stain. He moved deliberately, brushing over the fabric. His mind was a whirlwind… part concentration, part something deeper he didn’t yet have the words for.
The model sat on the edge of the bed, robe loosely draped, necklace dangling and watching him. There was something almost hypnotic about the way Till’s small hands worked over the fabric, so precise and focused. His fingers lingered just slightly longer over the wet shirt, and his mind raced, recalling countless times he had imagined moments like this… only now, it was real, tangible, and achingly close.
Every movement Till made, every glance up at him, sent a ripple through him. His chest tightened with an unfamiliar warmth. He wanted to reach out, to brush a stray hair from his face, to tell him that he wasn’t just cute… that he was irresistible. But he held himself back, letting the simmering tension coil quietly in the air, a soft fire that neither of them could ignore.
“Almost done,” the smaller man muttered, dipping the shirt again, his flushed face hidden behind a curtain of silver bangs. “Just a bit more…”
I.V’s eyes softened, watching silently. (He doesn’t know… he trusts me so completely…) The thought both thrilled and terrified him. (I want to hold him, to keep him close, to tell him everything… but I can’t. Not yet.)
Till’s small voice broke through his reverie. “All clean,” he said softly, holding up the shirt with a triumphant smile.
The other’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, voice low and intimate. “That’s perfect.”
Teal eyes flickered to him, heart hammering, and he held his gaze, unflinching, the intensity in his onyx eyes grounding them both in a moment that felt suspended outside time.
For a heartbeat, the world was just the two of them… the soft glow of the hotel room, the rose petals scattered like confetti, and the quiet electricity that pulsed in the space between their bodies.
Till couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped him, and I.V’s chest tightened again, that silent promise of more hanging between them, unspoken, yet felt deeply by both.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
See you in the next chapter hopefully tomorrow:)
Until then, be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 19: Marks of Memory
Summary:
“I…” he began, his voice soft, hesitant. He swallowed hard, eyes cast downward, and then looked up briefly, meeting I.V.’s gaze with a flicker of vulnerability. “…I just want to apologize again. For… for everything. I feel like every time we meet, all I do is annoy you.” His lips trembled slightly, and he added, voice barely above a whisper, “And… that night. I remember being drunk, throwing up… I’m sure I made you uncomfortable.”
The model shook his head immediately, voice firm but gentle. “That’s not true,” he said. “It isn’t your fault. I should have stopped you from drinking so much in the first place.” His eyes softened as he met Till’s, letting the apology fall from the other’s shoulders before it could weigh on him any longer.
Till’s brow furrowed, uncertainty creeping into his expression. “Then… why?”
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the room, blending with the quiet click of the drying shirt swinging gently from the small stand in the corner. Till exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease ever so slightly. He perched himself beside I.V. on the edge of the bed, folding his hands neatly in his lap as he took a deep breath. The faint scent of the man’s cologne lingered around him, a warm reminder of the night’s intimate proximity, and his heartbeat picked up at the subtle brush of his arm as he shifted slightly.
“I…” he began, his voice soft, hesitant. He swallowed hard, eyes cast downward, and then looked up briefly, meeting I.V.’s gaze with a flicker of vulnerability. “…I just want to apologize again. For… for everything. I feel like every time we meet, all I do is annoy you.” His lips trembled slightly, and he added, voice barely above a whisper, “And… that night. I remember being drunk, throwing up… I’m sure I made you uncomfortable.”
The model shook his head immediately, voice firm but gentle. “That’s not true,” he said. “It isn’t your fault. I should have stopped you from drinking so much in the first place.” His eyes softened as he met Till’s, letting the apology fall from the other’s shoulders before it could weigh on him any longer.
Till’s brow furrowed, uncertainty creeping into his expression. “Then… why?” he asked cautiously, “Why haven’t you responded to any of my messages?” His words were laced with worry, but also a quiet, earnest longing.
I.V’s gaze fell to his hands, his posture tensing. A small sigh escaped him, almost imperceptible. The silence stretched, thick with unsaid words. The silver-head misread it immediately… thinking he had annoyed his idol, that he had been too pushy. His chest ached, a familiar pang of insecurity rising within him. Without thinking, he nudged his shoulder lightly, forcing a small smile. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just… I wanted to apologize, and that’s enough.”
Onyx eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Till…” he breathed, the name slipping from his lips almost unconsciously. His voice carried something more than words: something deeper, heavier. But before he could continue, the smaller man leaned forward slightly, eyes earnest, voice small but firm.
“Can I ask for something selfish from you?”
I.V. blinked, his dark eyes focusing on his flushed face. Slowly, carefully, he nodded.
Till’s face lit up with a mixture of nerves and excitement. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, carefully opening it to reveal a neatly organized set of tools. “I… I’ve always kept this with me since the first time we met,” he murmured, his voice wavering slightly. “I wanted… I wanted you to do this for me.”
I.V. tilted his head, his brows furrowing in curiosity. “Do what?” he asked, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the intrigue flickering in his chest.
Till’s hands trembled just slightly as he held up the tools. “A piercing,” he said softly. “All my piercings… they’re inspired by you. And it would mean so much… if you pierced this one for me. So I’ll always remember us… our times together.”
The room seemed to shrink, the soft hum of the air conditioner fading into background noise as the model’s gaze darkened. He studied the other carefully, reading the raw honesty, the fragile bravery in his expression. His chest tightened. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low, almost reverent.
Till nodded without hesitation before lifting up his shirt. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. Please… it would be a dream to have you do this. I… I want it on my navel, just like yours.”
I.V.’s eyes flickered downward, taking in the smooth expanse of his stomach, the soft rise and fall of his breathing. His fingers twitched almost imperceptibly. His lips parted slightly, and he let out a soft hum, nodding once. The robe he wore shifted with his movement, leaving more of his chest exposed that Till’s gaze couldn’t help but linger, his own blush deepening as he took in the sight of his toned form.
He carefully shifted, laying back on the bed and keeping his shirt raised. The pouch and tools lay neatly beside him, a mixture of nerves and anticipation coiling tightly in his stomach. The raven-head knelt beside him, taking a small pen from the pouch and carefully marking the spot where the piercing would go. “Is this… okay?” he asked, his eyes locking onto his for reassurance.
Till nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Perfect,” he whispered.
I.V. reached for the disinfectant, methodically cleaning the area with precision. The scent of alcohol and antiseptic filled the air. Till’s gaze softened as he watched the man’s movements, taking in every detail: the careful way he handled the tools, the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. (This is it… this is the last time I’ll have him like this,) he thought. (He’s a celebrity, and I’m… me. But maybe next time, when I’m a professional designer, we’ll meet on equal ground.)
“Are you ready?” The model asked, his voice gentle, grounding him in the moment.
Till’s heart pounded in his chest. He swallowed hard, nodded, and closed his eyes. “Ready,” he whispered.
I.V.’s hand was steady as he guided the needle, piercing the delicate skin of the other’s navel. Till felt a sharp, throbbing sting, but he barely noticed the pain. His mind was flooded with memories: flashes of the night at the bar, the laughter, the dancing, the warmth of his idol’s hands on his skin, the feeling of absolute trust. The memory of sucking his finger, the softness of his shoulder as he slept, all returned in a rush he could no longer suppress.
A sudden sob escaped him, unexpected and raw. His eyes flew open, meeting the man’s dark gaze as the piercing was complete. His stomach now bore the mark, a permanent reminder of this night, of the man beside him.
I.V. immediately moved closer, gently wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Did that hurt too much?” he asked softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly.
Till shook his head, raising slightly and pressing his face against the man’s chest, arms circling around his neck. The sobs that escaped were quiet, almost desperate, a release of everything he had held in: the fear of losing these moments, the longing, the closeness he knew they could never fully claim again. But in I.V.’s arms, it was safe. In I.V.’s warmth, it was real.
The model held him, not rushing, letting the embrace stretch into silence filled only by the steady beat of hearts. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer words of comfort. He let him cry, let him release, because he knew this was important… that this night, this mark, this moment, would remain with Till forever.
Till’s hands clutched at the front of his robe, pressing himself closer. He knew this was a memory he would carry always, a tangible connection to the man he admired, trusted, and loved. And even if this was their last time like this, even if the world would never allow them such intimacy again, he could hold onto it.
The other finally exhaled softly, his chest rising against his face. He gently brushed silver hair back from his forehead, inhaling the faint scent of him, letting it settle into his memory. His mind was a storm of desire, guilt, and a strange, aching tenderness. He wanted to say so much, to tell Till everything, but the words remained unsaid. Instead, he held him tighter, letting the silence do the work words could not.
The smaller man’s sobs eventually quieted, and his body relaxed in the comforting weight of I.V.’s arms. For a long, suspended moment, the world outside the love hotel ceased to exist. There were no deadlines, no paparazzi, no competitions… only the two of them, the quiet intimacy, and the mark of memory etched on Till’s skin.
When he finally pulled back slightly, his eyes were red but shining, a mixture of awe and gratitude. His idol met his gaze, his own expression softening, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
“You’ll always remember this,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.
Till nodded, a shaky but determined smile forming. “Always,” he whispered back.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I shall see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow:)
Until then, have a wonderful day/night <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 20: Fractured Moments
Summary:
The other shook his head rapidly, forcing words out between short, uneven breaths. “I… I think… we should stop.” His voice was soft, barely audible over the steady hum of the room, yet it carried all the weight of his internal turmoil. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them to his lap, trying to ground himself. “I’m… I’m sorry. It’s just… I… I can’t.”
Notes:
I am thinking about creating a discord to chat with you guys and just talk about IvanTill and alien stage and such… I think it would be fun but let me know what you think. Would you join or?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The room was dim, the faint glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the scattered rose petals and the edge of the heart-shaped bed. Till sat there, the subtle hum of the air conditioner filling the silence, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he turned fully to face I.V. Their eyes met: dark, intense, and unflinching. There was a stillness in the air, a suspended tension that seemed to curl around them like smoke.
For a long moment, neither spoke. They simply looked at each other, taking in the weight of the night, the unspoken words, the closeness that had grown so naturally between them. The smaller man’s hands fidgeted slightly in his lap, but he didn’t move away. I.V.’s gaze softened just a fraction, a trace of a smile lingering at the corners of his lips.
Then, in a breath that felt like it could shatter everything, the model leaned in. Till’s heart skipped violently in his chest, a mix of nerves, anticipation, and a thrill he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in months. Their lips met slowly at first, tentative, as if testing the waters of a connection that had grown over their past shared moments: the quiet late nights, the laughter, the stolen glances, the trust that had built between them.
The designer closed his eyes, letting the warmth of I.V.’s lips wash over him. The kiss deepened, a gentle hunger blooming in the space between them, pulling him closer, urging him to let go of hesitation. He could feel the press of toned chest against his own, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the brush of his hands against his sides, soft yet insistent.
The kiss shifted again, growing more urgent, more insistent, I.V. tilting his head slightly to deepen the connection. Till’s hands rose instinctively, tangling in the fabric of the man’s robe, pulling him closer. He let himself feel, let himself breathe in the closeness, the warmth, the sense of belonging that had been building for months. It was intoxicating, heady, and fragile all at once.
I.V.’s hands began to roam, sliding down his sides with a careful, deliberate touch. His fingers traced the contours of the smaller man’s body, lingering at the curve of his waist, the soft plane of his abdomen. Till’s pulse quickened, his breath coming in shallow gasps, the warmth between them intensifying with every passing second. For a moment, everything else: the competition, the world outside, the two months of silence… fell away. It was just them.
But then, almost instantaneously, a flash of something unexpected struck Till. The image of Ivan… not I.V., not the man before him, but Ivan, the man with the unfashionable sense, the man with the clumsy hands and carelessness, the man with the ridiculous bucket hat…. the man he had spent these past months working with, laughing with, and trusting… shot into his mind. His chest tightened, and an unfamiliar panic rose. He pressed a hand against the model’s chest, pulling back just enough to break the kiss, his eyes wide and flustered.
I.V. paused, tilting his head, confusion flickering across his face. “Till…?” His voice was low, concerned, reaching for clarity.
The other shook his head rapidly, forcing words out between short, uneven breaths. “I… I think… we should stop.” His voice was soft, barely audible over the steady hum of the room, yet it carried all the weight of his internal turmoil. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them to his lap, trying to ground himself. “I’m… I’m sorry. It’s just… I… I can’t.”
The raven-head studied him for a moment, confusion but understanding dawning slowly in his dark eyes. He nodded, letting the space between them stretch into a comfortable silence. The tension of the kiss dissipated, replaced by the lingering warmth of shared intimacy, but now tempered by reality and the unspoken truths that neither dared confront fully in that moment.
Before they could linger in the quiet further, the sudden, shrill ring of the hotel room alarm pierced the stillness. The indicator flashed red: the time they had reserved was ending. The sudden reminder of temporal boundaries snapped them back to the present. I.V. rose carefully, moving to put on the now-dried t-shirt that Till had washed earlier. The robe shifted back into place, covering his chest, but leaving a subtle trace of the earlier intimacy in the lingering warmth of his skin.
The smaller man stood as well, his mind still whirling, heart pounding, a mixture of embarrassment, longing, and the residual sweetness of the kiss they had shared. He watched the other adjust his clothing, every movement precise, controlled, a stark contrast to the chaotic whirl of emotions he was trying to contain.
“I… thank you,” he murmured awkwardly, his voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of the room. He fidgeted slightly, unsure where to place his hands, unsure of where to look, his cheeks flushed with the memory of their closeness.
I.V. gave a small, almost wry smile, the corners of his lips twitching. “Be careful getting home,” he said, voice calm but carrying the weight of unspoken care. He lingered for a heartbeat, letting Till absorb the message, the gravity of the evening, before stepping toward the door.
The goodbye was brief, almost painfully ordinary after the heightened intimacy of their time together. They exchanged no physical touch, no lingering glance that lasted longer than necessary. Yet in that brief exchange, a thousand emotions pulsed beneath the surface: affection, regret, desire, and the fragile understanding that their time together in that space was fleeting, limited by circumstances beyond their control.
Till stepped out into the sunny yet cool air after closing the door behind him, his body trembling slightly with adrenaline, residual warmth, and the confusion of feelings that had been stirred in him. His steps were slow at first, as if moving through a fog, his mind looping over every detail: the kiss, the touch, the way I.V.’s eyes had softened, the firmness of his hands, the precise warmth of his chest against his own.
He walked home through the quiet streets, the city and bustling streets casting long shadows along the pavement. His heart continued to hammer against his ribs, thoughts spiraling uncontrollably. (Why did I think of Ivan…?) he wondered, his brow furrowing. (Why now, when I.V. is right there, when this is supposed to be… just us?)
By the time he reached his apartment, the first pale hints of evening were brushing against the horizon. He collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion and emotional overload mingling in a dizzying swirl. He reached down automatically, fingers brushing against the fresh navel piercing, a reminder of today, of the intimacy, of the trust he had allowed himself to place in the model.
He pressed a hand over his eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to steady the racing of his thoughts. (I need to stop thinking about this so much,) he told himself, though the statement felt hollow. (The competition is the following day. I need to focus… I need to concentrate on the outfit, on winning. Not… not on everything else.)
But the thoughts refused to settle. He could still feel the warmth of I.V.’s hands, the brush of lips, the faint thrill of closeness that had lingered even after the kiss ended. He also remembered the warmth in Ivan’s embrace. How safe he felt in the other’s arms. How… perfect it was. And somewhere, beneath the flurry of nerves and restraint, a quiet ache remained: the ache of knowing that moments like these were rare, fleeting, and perhaps, for now, irrevocably constrained by circumstance.
Till rolled onto his side, hugging a pillow tightly, the new piercing pressing lightly against his fingers. His mind replayed the night, the sharp tang of excitement mixed with guilt, the strange, confusing image of Ivan amidst the haze of memory. It felt impossible to untangle…yet he could not deny the truth that last night and today had both left its mark, not just on his skin, but on his heart.
Sleep came slowly, fitful and punctuated by dreams that blurred the line between desire and hesitation. He clutched the pillow closer, whispering to himself that he had to focus, that he had to save the thoughts of what had passed for another time. Tomorrow, he promised silently, he would concentrate on the competition, on the clothing, on the dream he had fought so hard to realize.
But even as he lay there, the faint echo of I.V.’s and Ivan’s presence lingered in the room: a phantom warmth, a memory of lips, hands, an embrace… and a time that none of them could fully reclaim, yet couldn’t fully forget.
And in that quiet, fragile space, Till understood something simple, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once: that the connection they shared, fleeting as it might be, had changed him. It had left him raw, aware, and utterly alive.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I will see you in the next chapter hopefully tomorrow:)
(I am thinking about creating a discord to chat with you guys and just talk about IvanTill and alien stage and such… I think it would be fun but let me know what you think. Would you join or?)
Anyways until then, have a wonderful day/night and stay safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 21: The Unraveling Thread
Summary:
The applause was thunderous. Cameras flashed. But he heard none of it.
He turned off the stage, heart pounding, ignoring the congratulations and chatter around him. He pushed past models and stylists, scanning the crowd, searching.
He found Till in the changing room… sitting by the mirror, shoulders hunched, hands clasped tightly in his lap. The reflection showed his face, pale and blank, eyes red-rimmed but dry.
He closed the door softly behind him. The air between them was still.
“Till—”
“Don’t.” The other’s voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
Other than that… this chapter is an emotional roller coaster so enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Backstage was alive with motion. The hum of hairdryers, the hiss of steamers, the chatter of stylists calling for pins and fabric tape filled the air like a rhythm: chaotic, steady, alive. The scent of makeup powders and freshly ironed fabric mixed with the sharp tang of nerves.
Ivan stood at one of the worktables, carefully laying out the outfit they had designed for the final show. His hands were steady, methodical… adjusting the stitching, checking the line of the seams, running his fingers over the delicate beadwork that caught the light like drops of water. It was perfect. It was Till.
Around him, other students hurried between mirrors and racks, assistants pinned garments, organizers with clipboards barked countdowns. The competition hall was massive: all chrome and white light, the kind of stage that made or broke dreams.
Forty-five minutes until showtime.
He glanced at his phone. No messages. No missed calls. He frowned, thumb tapping against the edge of the table. Till was always early, always sending little updates: “almost there,” or “stuck in line for coffee.” But tonight, nothing.
He checked again. Still nothing.
A gnawing unease began to settle in his chest. He tried to brush it off… the other was probably almost here. Still, something about the silence felt wrong.
He waited five more minutes before finally pressing call.
The ringtone buzzed in his ear, echoing beneath the noise of the backstage chaos. One ring. Two. Five. Then it went to voicemail.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Ivan ran a hand through his dark curls, the familiar weight of anxiety pressing against his ribs. (Where are you, Till?)
Thirty minutes left.
The phone vibrated suddenly in his hand, and he snatched it up immediately. A video call. Till.
He answered in one breath, relief washing through him… but it vanished almost instantly when he saw the smaller man’s face on the screen. Till was in a car, nightlights spilling over his features. The sound of car horns can be heard loudly around him. His expression was tense, lips pressed together in frustration.
“Ivan!” His voice crackled slightly through the line. “I… I don’t think I’m gonna make it on time.”
Said man blinked, disbelieving. “What? What do you mean? Where are you?”
“I’m stuck in traffic! There’s some kind of parade or event near my street… the entire road’s blocked off! I’ve been trying to get out for almost an hour—” Till let out a low groan, pressing a hand against his forehead. “I’m sorry, Ivan. I thought I’d make it, but I don’t think I can.”
The raven-head’s heart sank. The show… their show… the one they’d poured months of sweat into. The outfit sitting neatly on the rack beside him suddenly felt heavier, like a weight pressing down on his chest.
“Then…” he hesitated. “Who’s going to model it?”
Till’s expression changed, the realization dawning on him. He glanced up, eyes widening. “You’ll have to,” he said suddenly. “You’ll have to model it for us.”
The man stared. “Me?”
“Yes! You’re the only one who can.”
“It won’t fit me, Till,” he interrupted, running a hand down his arm in disbelief. “We tailored everything to your figure. The measurements are off… the shirt, the pants, the—”
“Damn it!” the silver-head cursed softly, fingers threading through his hair as his mind raced. Then, his eyes flicked up. “Wait! Do you have any pins? Like… safety pins? Large ones?”
Ivan blinked, glancing around. A few silver glints caught his eye… on a nearby table, and one pinned to his hoodie. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “I have a good bit. Why?”
Till’s eyes brightened. “Okay. Rip the shirt and pants along the seams… not too much, just enough to open them up. Use the pins to reattach the fabric, make the pins form hearts but leave small gaps… it’ll give the illusion of a design choice while adding space for you to fit.”
Ivan stared at him. “You want me to rip our design?”
The other shot him a faint grin through the screen. “Think of it as… improvisational tailoring.”
He let out a soft laugh despite himself, tension easing slightly as he followed instructions. The pins clicked softly as he worked in the shape of silver hearts… glinting as he fastened them into place, reshaping the outfit piece by piece. The once sleek silhouette now looked deliberately fragmented: artful, edgy. Like something I.V. would wear.
Twenty minutes gone.
“You’re doing great,” Till said, his voice steady even through the screen. “Just keep it simple, okay? Don’t overthink the walk… be confident, I know you can be if you put your mind to it. Make me proud.”
Ivan froze for a moment, meeting his gaze through the screen. The softness there… the quiet trust… hit him like a blow. He smiled faintly, nodding. “I will.”
The other smiled back, the expression warm, tired, and full of something that twisted his chest.
The call ended.
He stood in silence for a moment, staring at his reflection in the backstage mirror. His reflection stared back… the shadow of both men he’d been forced to live as. Ivan, the quiet designer. I.V., the untouchable idol.
He took a deep breath and reached for the hem of his hoodie, pulling it off and setting aside his bucket hat. His curls fell loose around his face, messy but striking. For a long second, he just looked at himself… at the version he had hidden away for too long.
“I can do this,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Till’s fading reflection in his mind. “For him.”
He called over the stylists. “Touch me up…something bold. But I’d prefer if my bangs kinda covered my eyes. ”
The stylists nodded, already pulling out hair products, brushes, foundation, and gloss. In ten minutes, his reflection transformed: the subtle shadows around his eyes sharpened, but was slightly covered by his now straight bangs, his lips glossed, his cheekbones carved by light.
When the show started, the lights dimmed across the stage. A voice echoed over the loudspeakers announcing the competition theme: Variations of Love.
It was fitting. Almost cruelly so.
Each model strutted across the runway one by one, garments shimmering beneath the spotlights. The crowd murmured, applauded, gasped. Ivan stood just behind the curtain, the heavy air of anticipation pressing down on him.
Then, his cue came.
He stepped onto the runway.
The lights flared white-hot, the audience a blur of faces and cameras. He walked forward with the same stride he had used countless times before: poised, confident, unshakable. The rhythm of his steps matched the music: a deep, pulsing beat that echoed through the hall. His head tilted slightly, chin high, gaze unwavering.
The fragmented outfit caught the light like broken glass: shimmering with deliberate imperfection. Every pin reflected back the stage lights like tiny stars.
And then —
He saw him.
Till.
Standing just beyond the crowd near the back entrance, breathless, one hand gripping the strap of his bag. His expression was bright for a split second: pride, relief… until their eyes met.
Ivan’s stomach dropped.
Till’s smile faded. His eyes widened, then hardened, recognition dawning like a sunrise too harsh to look at. The posture, the aura, the stride… I.V.’s walk. There was no mistaking it.
His heart sank into his stomach. The air left his lungs. The world around him blurred: the applause, the music, the flashing lights… all of it dimmed until there was only him.
Ivan… no, I.V… gliding across the stage like he owned it. The same tilt of the head, the same commanding presence that he had admired, envied, loved.
It hit him all at once, like a blow to the chest. He’s been I.V. all along.
Every smile. Every moment. Every touch.
The smaller man’s throat tightened. His mind replayed everything: the gentle teasing, the way I.V. had looked at him, the way Ivan had comforted him. Two men who were one. Two versions of the same truth he had been too blind to see.
The ache of realization was sharp, raw. (He lied to me.)
Onstage, Ivan’s steps faltered for just a heartbeat as he caught the look in the other’s eyes: shock, betrayal, hurt. But then he lifted his chin again and continued, finishing his walk with perfect grace.
The applause was thunderous. Cameras flashed. But he heard none of it.
He turned off the stage, heart pounding, ignoring the congratulations and chatter around him. He pushed past models and stylists, scanning the crowd, searching.
He found Till in the changing room… sitting by the mirror, shoulders hunched, hands clasped tightly in his lap. The reflection showed his face, pale and blank, eyes red-rimmed but dry.
He closed the door softly behind him. The air between them was still.
“Till—”
“Don’t.” The other’s voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. “Don’t call my name. You don’t have that right anymore.”
Ivan froze, his throat closing.
Till didn’t look up, just stared at the reflection in the mirror. “You really had me fooled,” he said quietly, barking out a laugh even with his voice trembling. “I didn’t see it. Not once. You… the way you changed your voice, your posture.” He gave another hollow laugh. “God, it was so obvious now that I think about it. But I just… I trusted you like the pathetic fool I am.”
“Till, please, I—”
“All those times,” Said man interrupted, finally turning his head slightly toward him. “All those times I embarrassed myself in front of you… in front of both of you… were just a joke to you, weren’t they?”
Ivan shook his head quickly, his voice hoarse. “No. It was never a joke. What we have… what I feel for you… it’s real.”
Till looked at him through the mirror again, eyes shimmering. “You knew I hated liars,” he said softly. “You knew why.” His voice cracked, his reflection blurring as tears welled up. “So why, Ivan… I.V? Why would you do this to me? Why would you kiss me… and hold me… while knowing you were lying to me?”
The raven-head took a slow step forward, pain twisting through his chest. “Because I’m in love with you,” he said quietly, the words trembling but sure. “I’m sorry for all of it: the lies, the confusion… but I love you, Till. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything.”
Till turned then, fully facing him for the first time. For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. Teal eyes searched his face: the familiar lines of I.V., the softness of Ivan, now blurred into one. His lips parted slightly, breath catching. Then he looked away sharply, covering his face with his hands.
“Stop,” he whispered, then louder, “Stop! Stop confusing me even more! Just… stop!” His voice broke, raw and aching. “You’ve done enough. Just… get out. Please. Get out and don’t show your face to me again.”
Ivan’s breath hitched, the words cutting deep. He wanted to reach for him: to touch him, to say something, anything… but he stopped himself. His hand hovered for a moment, then fell to his side.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “If that’s what you want.”
He turned and walked out, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing louder than the applause still rumbling from the stage outside.
Till sat there, motionless, the silence swallowing him whole. His reflection trembled through the tears that finally fell, splashing against his hands as he broke apart quietly, his sobs muffled against the sound of the fading music.
And by that mirror, beneath the fluorescent lights, his world quietly fell apart.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I shall see you in the next chapter :)
Yes I know this chapter is a bit emotional but if you read my other fics you’d know I love a bit of angst WITH a happy ending so fear not ;)
Until then, have a wonderful day/ night and be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 22: The Quiet Between Hearts
Summary:
He stopped going out after a while. He stopped accepting interviews. He told everyone he needed a break.
But the truth was simpler and crueler: without I.V, without Ivan, everything had lost its color.
He still checked Instagram, though. Even when he told himself he shouldn’t. Even when it hurt.
Notes:
Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
They won.
Till stood onstage as the bright lights rained down, a bouquet in one arm, the trophy in the other, cameras flashing in waves before him. Beside him, the judges were smiling, the host was speaking, the audience clapping… but the applause felt far away, like it was echoing through water.
He should’ve been happy. Proud. Overwhelmed, even. Months of sleepless nights, sketches, fittings, revisions, tears… had all led to this moment. They had won.
But his chest felt hollow.
He looked down at the trophy in his hands, at the engraved words: Grand Prize: Variations of Love. The irony didn’t escape him. The name of their project, the one he and Ivan had whispered to each other while staying up late at the studio, was now the title of the wound between them.
He clutched the cold metal tighter and forced a small smile when the camera panned his way. But his eyes… his eyes gave him away. They were empty, distant, aching.
Somewhere beyond the glare of stage lights and the crowd’s cheers, Ivan wasn’t there.
He didn’t even stay for the announcement.
After everything, after the confrontation backstage, after his own words had pushed him out the door… Till hadn’t seen him again. Not once.
____
Three months passed.
The spring air had turned heavier now, blooming with the scent of lilacs and rain. The campus buzzed faintly in the distance, laughter and chatter drifting through open windows, but he barely noticed anymore.
He sat alone by the window in the fashion studio, sketchbook open but untouched. His pencil rested between his fingers, motionless. The afternoon sunlight caught on the silver piercings he wore… the piercings that were all very much inspired by his idol.
The first few weeks after the show had been unbearable. Everywhere he went, people congratulated him. Professors praised the creativity, the concept, the confidence of the model. His inbox filled with offers, internships, messages from fashion magazines asking for interviews.
And yet, every time he looked at that winning design… their design, he saw Ivan’s hands working the fabric, Ivan’s quiet smile, Ivan’s… I.V’s walk on the runway that night.
He stopped going out after a while. He stopped accepting interviews. He told everyone he needed a break.
But the truth was simpler and crueler: without I.V, without Ivan, everything had lost its color.
He still checked Instagram, though. Even when he told himself he shouldn’t. Even when it hurt.
That’s how he knew the model was on hiatus. “Taking time off for personal reasons,” the official account had said. No photos, no appearances, no live streams. Just silence.
And Ivan… hadn’t come back to school.
Till didn’t know what to think anymore. Every time he tried to hate him, to hold onto that anger, it crumbled the moment he remembered the way the man had looked that night… the tremor in his voice when he confessed, “I’m in love with you.”
He hated that his heart still fluttered at the memory.
_____
Across the city, behind blackout curtains and silence, the raven-head laid lazily on his couch, surrounded by a dim mess of empty coffee cups and sketch papers that hadn’t been touched in months.
The sunlight barely reached him.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to fight the dull ache behind them. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks… or maybe since that day. It was hard to tell anymore. Time had stopped meaning much since the show.
Three months, and he still couldn’t forget the way Till looked at him that night… like he was a stranger. Like every moment they’d shared had been a lie.
He deserved it. He knew that.
He’d told himself that every day since.
Every time he thought of reaching out, his hand froze halfway over his phone. What would he even say? That he was sorry? That he couldn’t stop thinking about him? That every version of himself: Ivan, I.V., the man in between… belonged to him?
None of it would matter. He’d hurt him. And you can’t fix something once it’s shattered.
His phone had been ringing all morning again. His manager. Always his manager.
He didn’t answer. He hadn’t answered in months. Eventually, he changed his number. He couldn’t handle the constant questions: the deadlines, the brand shoots, the press. He didn’t want to be I.V. right now.
He barely wanted to be Ivan.
Some days he managed to eat, other days he didn’t. Showering was optional. The only thing he did consistently was sit and lay in silence, in guilt, in exhaustion.
Until one day.
A knock came at the door.
Soft, hesitant.
He almost ignored it. But then another came: sharper, insistent.
With a groan, he got up and shuffled toward it, dragging his feet.
When he opened the door, he froze.
Standing there was his older sister, Sua, raven hair tied in a ponytail, arms crossed, an expression caught between worry and fury. Beside her, his mother Irene and his father Ju-yeon.
They all looked at him the same way…
with concern.
“Oh my god, Ivan,” his sister whispered, stepping in before he could speak. “You look like death.”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically, voice rasping from disuse.
His mother’s eyes softened, glossy with tears. “You’re not fine, sweetheart.”
He looked away. “Why are you here?”
“Because you stopped answering our calls for weeks,” she said flatly.
He opened his mouth to argue, but she stepped closer and pulled him into a hug before he could.
It startled him: the warmth, the softness. His body went rigid, then slowly sagged into her arms. His father joined, wrapping them both. His mother followed, one hand running through his hair like she used to when he was a boy.
For a moment, Ivan couldn’t breathe.
Then he did. And the breath came out as a broken sound, a sob that slipped past his control.
“I messed up,” he whispered. “I hurt him.”
“We know,” Irene murmured gently. “You’ve repeated those words countless times already to us.”
“He hates me,” Ivan responded, voice cracking. “And he should.”
His father’s hand squeezed his shoulder firmly. “Son, the way to make things right isn’t by hiding. It’s by standing up and taking responsibility. You love him, right?”
He nodded slowly.
“Then don’t waste that love by drowning in guilt,” Sua said. “Do something with it. Do better.”
He looked between them, eyes red and hollow, but for the first time in months, there was something flickering behind the exhaustion… a spark of purpose, faint but there.
His mother smiled through her tears, brushing his cheek. “You’ve always been stubborn, Ibanny. But don’t let that ruin what love can heal.”
Her words lingered long after they left.
The apartment was quiet again, but different now… not empty. There was warmth left behind, the faint scent of his parents, the memory of his sister’s voice telling him he still had time to make things right.
He sat on the couch for a long time, staring at his phone.
Then, slowly, he turned it on.
He scrolled through the contacts, through unread messages from brands, magazines, friends… until he found one name. Till.
His thumb hovered over it, trembling.
Then he typed.
IVAN: Hey.
IVAN: I know it’s been a while.
IVAN: There’s the red carpet event next week.
IVAN: I’m… I.V. would be wearing the design we made together.
IVAN: I’d really like for you to see it.
No pressure. Just… if you want to come.
IVAN: At least let me make your dream come true. I’ll send the invitation through your email :)
He stared at the last message for several minutes, every muscle tense. Then, finally, he pressed send.
It left with a soft whoosh.
He set the phone down and leaned back, closing his eyes. For the first time in months, he didn’t feel completely numb.
There was fear, yes… but also something else. Hope.
If Till showed up…
Maybe he’d finally get the chance to say all the things he hadn’t before.
To tell him he still loved him.
To tell him that under all the lies, the makeup, the names: Ivan, I.V., whoever he was… there was only one truth that mattered:
Till had always been the one worth coming back to.
_____
Across town, the smaller man’s phone buzzed quietly against his desk as he sat sketching absentmindedly under the evening light.
When he saw the sender’s name, his breath caught.
He didn’t open it right away. His hand hovered over the screen, heart racing.
After a long pause, he tapped the notification.
The words glowed softly under his trembling fingers.
By the time he reached the end… something shifted inside him.
A small, dangerous part of his heart that he thought had gone quiet began to stir again.
He didn’t know yet what he’d do.
But as the sky outside faded into gold, Till found himself whispering the same name under his breath: half curse, half prayer.
“Ivan…”
And the quiet between them began to hum again.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and I’ll see you in the next chapter :)
Have a wonderful day/night and be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 23: What Is Nightlife?
Summary:
Inside one of the hotel’s upper suites overlooking the venue, Ivan stood before a tall mirror, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the collar of his outfit. The outfit.
Their outfit.
The one he and Till had made together. The one that had won the competition… that had changed everything.
He exhaled softly, his reflection staring back at him. His raven streaked hair fell over his shoulders, half tied into a low bun with a few strands of his crimson streaks styled to curtain his face, his makeup brushed in deep tones of browns and plum that made his eyes sharper, his lips fuller. The stylists circled him, pinning, smoothing, perfecting the final touches, while the hum of city lights filled the room below.
Notes:
Reminder: Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The night air in Seoul shimmered with heat and light. The streets around the Coex Convention Center were alive: a sea of black cars, clicking heels, and cameras that never seemed to stop flashing. The red carpet stretched long beneath the glowing white banners of the annual Celestia Fashion Gala, one of South Korea’s most exclusive celebrity events. It was the kind of night where the world seemed to hold its breath, where even the stars seemed to lean closer to watch.
Fans crowded behind the velvet ropes, phones raised, voices rising like waves. Photographers barked directions while reporters clustered in pockets, trading murmured rumors about who would wear what. The buzz in the air was electric, but one name cut through it all, again and again, rising above the chaos like a chant:
“I.V! I.V! I.V!”
For months, he’d been gone. No public appearances. No live runway shows. No interviews. And now, tonight, he was returning… not for modeling, but for fashion. The mysterious, breathtaking I.V: the man who had walked away from everything, was stepping back into the light.
The world waited.
_____
Inside one of the hotel’s upper suites overlooking the venue, Ivan stood before a tall mirror, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the collar of his outfit. The outfit.
Their outfit.
The one he and Till had made together. The one that had won the competition… that had changed everything.
He exhaled softly, his reflection staring back at him. His raven streaked hair fell over his shoulders, half tied into a low bun with a few strands of his crimson streaks styled to curtain his face, his makeup brushed in deep tones of browns and plum that made his eyes sharper, his lips fuller. The stylists circled him, pinning, smoothing, perfecting the final touches, while the hum of city lights filled the room below.
The outfit itself was a fusion of contradictions: dark and luminous, elegant yet chaotic. The base was a fitted black pants reimagined through avant-garde tailoring: slashed seams reconnected by oversized silver safety pins forming heart-shaped outlines across the thighs and bottom hem. The silk shirt underneath shimmered faintly like starlight, catching flashes of deep violet and silver with the heart-shaped safety pins along the seams of the neckline and chest. Around his waist, a leather belt detailed with metallic studs and wrapped around a thin rope of violet silk detailed with iridescent charms hinted at fragility and strength. Finally the outfit was paired with a spiked asymmetrical jacket: half material charcoal silk while the other half charcoal leather. The zipper an iridescent accent bringing the whole design together.
Every thread screamed Till’s touch. Every detail carried his vision.
Ivan brushed his fingers over one of the silver heart-pins and smiled faintly.
“Till,” he murmured, barely audible.
He wondered if the man would come. He hadn’t responded to the message. But something in his chest: something reckless, something desperate , told him he would.
He’d always believed he had the kind of heart that couldn’t stay away when it mattered.
“I.V, we’re ready,” his manager called softly from the doorway.
He nodded. “Coming.”
He fixed the small hoop in his lip piercing, straightened the navel stud through his shirt’s subtle V-slit at the stomach, and glanced at the mirror one last time. He could feel I.V. sliding back into him… that other skin, that other life… but this time it didn’t feel like hiding.
It felt like becoming.
______
The red carpet gleamed like blood and glass under the lights as the black sedan rolled to a stop. The door opened, and the noise exploded: screams, camera flashes, reporters calling his name like a chorus.
“I.V.! Over here! Look this way!”
He stepped out slowly, each movement fluid and deliberate, as though he had never left. He straightened to his full height, a half-smile curving on his lips as the lights hit him. Gasps rippled through the crowd and then a wave of recognition.
“Isn’t that—?”
“That’s the outfit from that recent fashion competition!”
“Oh my god, he’s wearing the winning design!”
The murmurs multiplied like fire, spreading through the crowd, through reporters, through every fan holding up their phones.
Ivan’s heart raced, but his face remained calm, his expression cool and composed. He walked the carpet, the metallic pins glinting under the spotlights like stars, his stride confident and effortless. Cameras flashed in rhythmic bursts.
It was chaos, but for him, it was silence. His heartbeat drowned everything else out.
Because when his eyes lifted, through the barricade of fans and photographers, he saw him.
Till.
Standing among the crowd near the far end of the carpet, not too close, not too far. His hair was neatly styled wearing a beautiful suit with obvious punk elements but his expression was unreadable, though his eyes… they were wide, searching.
The raven-head’s breath caught. For a moment, time stilled.
He wanted to smile, to wave, to run to him. But then a hand touched his arm: the event’s MC, a tall man in a gray suit, microphone poised.
“I.V! Welcome back! The crowd’s been waiting for you,” the MC greeted brightly, ushering him toward the interview stand.
He forced himself to refocus, to smile politely. “It’s good to be here.”
“We’ve missed you these past few months,” the man continued as the cameras swiveled toward them. “But what a return! Everyone’s talking about your outfit tonight… it’s stunning. Can you tell us more about it?”
Ivan glanced toward the crowd… his gaze flicking, unbidden, to Till… before answering.
“This outfit,” he began slowly, his voice smooth, steady, “is special. It’s from a collection designed around the theme ‘Variations of Love.’ Each piece represents a different form of love: fleeting, wild, patient, or destructive. This one,” he brushed a hand lightly over the silver heart-pinned cutout across his chest, “represents the love for nightlife.”
The MC smiled eagerly. “Nightlife! That’s such an interesting concept. What does that mean to you?”
His gaze slid back to Till. Their eyes locked, just for a moment.
He remembered the night the smaller man had first said it, the excitement in his voice, the spark in his eyes as he explained his concept, hands moving as though shaping invisible light.
And so he said, word for word, the same lines the other had once spoken:
“Nightlife takes courage,” he started softly, his tone low and measured. “The love of nightlife brings people together, gives them confidence, power. It’s when people stop pretending and actually live.”
The crowd fell silent for a beat. The MC blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his voice.
Ivan smiled faintly, eyes never leaving Till’s. “This outfit embodies that: the courage to be seen, to be unafraid. The ones who designed this understood that kind of love deeply.”
The silver-head’s heart pounded in his chest. His fingers tightened around the small program in his hand.
Those words…
His words.
He had said them that day, during the brainstorming session. And Ivan… I.V… he remembered them.
The noise of the event seemed to fade for him, leaving only the pounding of his pulse. He should have felt anger. Betrayal. But all he could feel was awe and a painful tenderness blooming in his chest.
The raven-head continued, his voice steadier now, carrying across the crowd. “What I love most about this design,” he said, glancing down at the pins that held the outfit together, “is its playfulness. It’s intricate, imperfect, but there’s a story in the details. Especially these.”
He touched one of the heart-shaped pins lightly, his voice softening. “Usually, when something is broken, I’d think there’s no point fixing it. I’d throw it away, move on. But lately…” his eyes lifted again, meeting beautiful teal ones across the lights… “I’ve realized that some things are worth holding onto. Even if it means using a safety pin to keep it together.”
The crowd didn’t catch the undertone, but the smaller man did. Every word felt like a thread pulling tight around his heart.
He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He wanted to walk away, but his legs refused.
Until they didn’t.
Because suddenly, it was too much: the lights, the crowd, the words. The way Ivan was looking at him like no one else existed.
He turned abruptly, the world blurring around him, and pushed his way out of the crowd.
The other’s chest tightened.
He blinked, the MC still talking, the cameras still flashing, but the only thing he saw was Till walking away, his back disappearing into the blur of people.
“Ah, I.V, any last words for your fans tonight?” the man asked, smiling brightly.
He managed a polite bow, voice tight. “Thank you for waiting for me. Please… keep believing.”
Then, before the MC could stop him, he turned and strode off the carpet.
______
Till was already halfway through the private lobby, his heart racing, his thoughts a storm.
He pushed past guests, staff, flashes of sequined gowns and tuxedos, ignoring the voices calling his name who recognized him as the designer of I.V’s outfit. He didn’t know where he was going… only that he needed to move.
Those words… the ones Ivan said… they weren’t just an interview answer. They were meant for him.
He remembered the way his voice had softened when he said, “I’ve realized that some things are worth holding onto. Even if it means using a safety pin to keep it together.”
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away, speeding up his pace.
“Till!”
The voice came from behind him: breathless, desperate.
He froze.
The sound of footsteps echoed across the marble floor, growing closer until a hand caught his wrist, gently but firmly.
He turned.
The model stood there, chest heaving. Up close, he was still I.V., but softer… real. His raven and crimson strands clung to his forehead, his eyes shining with a mix of fear and hope.
Neither of them spoke at first. The world around them blurred into silence.
Till’s heart hammered in his chest, the warmth of the other’s hand spreading through him like fire.
Ivan swallowed hard, voice low. “You came.”
He didn’t answer… not yet. His throat felt too tight.
For a moment, they just stood there, two broken halves of a story that wasn’t finished yet, caught between what was lost and what could still be mended.
And for the first time in months, neither of them walked away.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading. I am so happy to finally reveal the full description of the outfit. It was so fun to come up with… if any of you want to try drawing it, please feel free to and share it with me :)
Until then, have a wonderful day/night and I shall see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 24: Courage and Safety Pins
Summary:
The smaller man immediately shook his head and lifted his hands to cover his face, his words muffled but trembling. “Don’t… don’t talk to me in that voice,” he said, shaking slightly. “And don’t look at me like that. Please.”
Ivan blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his expression before the corners of his lips quirked into the faintest, smallest smile. Somehow, despite the tension hanging between them, he found it… adorable. That even now, Till was flustered by his “I.V.” tone, by the effortless glamour that came with it.
Notes:
Reminder: Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The air outside the venue had cooled by the time the last of the photographers drifted away. The flashing lights and clamoring voices faded into a distant hum, leaving only the low murmur of the city and the faint, restless sound of passing cars.
Till stood frozen just beyond the tall glass doors, his breathing unsteady. He had tried to leave… truly… but somehow, his legs wouldn’t carry him far. Not when his heart still ached with the weight of everything Ivan had said under those blinding lights.
And now, standing before him, was the man himself, the shimmer of that world clinging to him like a second skin.
“Till,” he breathed, his chest rising and falling, his voice softer than the city wind.
The smaller man immediately shook his head and lifted his hands to cover his face, his words muffled but trembling. “Don’t… don’t talk to me in that voice,” he said, shaking slightly. “And don’t look at me like that. Please.”
Ivan blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his expression before the corners of his lips quirked into the faintest, smallest smile. Somehow, despite the tension hanging between them, he found it… adorable. That even now, Till was flustered by his “I.V.” tone, by the effortless glamour that came with it.
But he didn’t tease him for long. He took a quiet breath, steadying his heartbeat, before straightening his shoulders. His voice gentled, losing the practiced cadence of a celebrity, and became entirely human.
“Then…” he began softly, “let me start over.”
Till peeked between his fingers, confused.
Ivan offered a small, sincere bow. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, voice steady. “My name is Hwan Ivan. I’m twenty-four years old, and I work as a model by the stage name I.V.”
The other lowered his hands slightly, blinking up at him.
“I’m clumsy with my hands,” he continued, his tone faintly amused, “and honestly, a loser at heart. But that’s never stopped me from doing what I love most: fashion designing. I’m a second year student right now, studying at Seoul Fashion Institute.”
He hesitated, eyes softening, almost shy. “And… there’s this one cute guy in my class that I can’t stop thinking about. We worked on a project together not long ago, and every time I see him, I just want to hold him tight and keep him close to my heart. I really am… in love with him.”
The words were simple… but the truth in them was devastating.
Till’s breath caught. He hadn’t even realized tears had begun to slip down his cheeks until Ivan’s fingers reached out and brushed gently against his skin. The touch was featherlight, careful… like he was afraid the silver-head might break if he pressed too hard.
For a moment, neither spoke. The space between them felt alive, vibrating with every unsaid word, every memory that had brought them here.
Till looked away, unable to hold his gaze for long. His voice trembled. “You’re not fair.”
The model smiled faintly, though his own eyes glistened. “I’m sorry.”
He dropped his hand but didn’t step back. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. “When I first approached you, I just… wanted to know more about you. You stood out: so quiet, but so bright. But the more time I spent with you, the more I realized how much you’d gotten under my skin. The way you talked about your ideas, your dreams… your smile. I didn’t even notice when it happened, but I’d already fallen for you. I understood then that I was always into you.”
Till bit his lip hard, trying to steady himself.
“I was selfish,” the raven-head admitted softly, guilt threading through each syllable. “I hurt the person I love most because I was scared… scared of being seen for who I am. And it’s completely fair if he can’t forgive me for that.”
He exhaled shakily, his hands trembling at his sides. “I thought about a lot of ways to fix this. A thousand different things I could do to make up for it. But every time I tried to plan it out, the only thing I could think of was… just talking to you. Just telling you everything.”
He paused then, glancing down at the sleeve of his outfit where the heart-shaped safety pins gleamed softly beneath the lobby light.
A small, hopeful smile touched his lips as he lifted his arm slightly. “This outfit,” he said quietly, “it gave me courage tonight. To be free. To be honest. I think that’s what you always wanted… to live honestly. And I want that too.”
He lifted his gaze, his voice trembling with emotion. “Till… I, Hwan Ivan… also known as I.V, am in love with you. So please…” His voice cracked just a little, his throat tightening as he took one hesitant step forward. “Please, give me the chance to at least be your friend.”
The air between them seemed to still entirely.
Till’s lips parted in surprise. His breath came unevenly. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant city beyond the lobby they stood in: the wind, the hum of passing cars, the faint pulse of music from the venue far behind them.
Then, quietly, he shook his head.
The raven-head froze, the faint hope flickering in his eyes beginning to dim. “You’re saying no,” he said softly, voice breaking.
Till’s eyes glistened, and he quickly covered his face again, his words muffled but trembling. “We can’t,” he said.
Ivan blinked, distraught crossing his features.
“I mean…” the smaller man lowered his hands just enough for him to see the heavy flush coloring his cheeks. “It’s impossible.”
Ivan’s heart sank. “Impossible?”
Till nodded weakly, his gaze flickering downward. “It’s impossible to be friends with you.”
The words struck deep, but before the model could retreat, the other lifted his head again, teal eyes shimmering.
“Because,” he whispered, “I’m already in love with you.”
Ivan’s breath caught.
“With Hwan Ivan,” Till continued, voice trembling, “with I.V… with you.”
The confession hit like a wave, and the other man’s heart stuttered violently in his chest. His knees felt weak; his breath hitched. He couldn’t speak for a moment, couldn’t even think… just feel.
Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his hand and reached for Till’s again. The silver-head tried to cover his face once more, embarrassed beyond words, but Ivan’s voice was gentle, teasing in the softest way.
“Please don’t hide,” he murmured.
Till shook his head frantically. “No, don’t look at me, I can’t—”
The raven-head chuckled softly under his breath and carefully, tenderly, pried his fingers away from his face. His thumb brushed the wet trail of tears along his cheek, his gaze soft but intense.
Till thought to himself that something must be very, very wrong with him: to forgive this easily, to melt this completely. But how could he help it? When Ivan looked at him like that: open, sincere, so heartbreakingly real… every piece of anger he’d held for months simply dissolved.
The man’s touch lingered, warm against his skin. His chest ached.
He let out a weak, trembling laugh. “You know,” he started softly, “my heart’s been a mess ever since the day I met you.”
Ivan’s breath caught. He smiled: fragile but bright… and his own eyes shimmered with tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered sincerely. “I really am.”
He cupped his face with both hands now, thumbs brushing his cheeks, his expression raw and vulnerable. “If I could go back, I’d tell you the truth from the start. But if I hadn’t been both of them… I don’t think I’d ever have had the courage to get close to you.”
Till laughed through the tears, the sound shaking but genuine. His flushed smile tugged something inside Ivan loose. The model let out a small, broken laugh of his own, a sound half joy, half disbelief.
“God,” he whispered breathlessly, pressing his forehead briefly to his. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen your gorgeous face this close.”
The smaller man pushed at his chest weakly, his face burning. “Stop it,” he whined, his voice small and shaky. “Don’t mess with me right now. And don’t… don’t look at me like that! You’ll make me forgive you faster!”
Ivan’s laughter came easier now, bright and boyish, echoing off the quiet air in the private lobby.
He leaned back slightly, still smiling. “So that’s how it works, huh? My I.V. face gets me forgiven faster?”
Till groaned, his blush deepening as he avoided his gaze. “You know you’re hot,” he muttered. “You don’t need to remind me.”
The other chuckled, the sound low and warm. “And what about my Ivan face?” he asked, playful now. “Is it hot too?”
Till hesitated, his eyes flickering up shyly before nodding. “It’s… really hot,” he admitted. “Cool, even. Just like your I.V. side.”
The words hit the man harder than they should have. He felt warmth unfurling in his chest, the kind that reached the corners of his eyes.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.
They stood there for a while, neither daring to move, the city lights casting them in gold and silver.
For the first time in months, there was no disguise between them. No distance. No stage lights or pretense. Just Ivan and Till… and a love held together by the same fragile strength as the safety pins on the model’s sleeve.
The night hummed softly around them, and though nothing was fully mended yet, the first threads of something real… something healing had begun to stitch their way between them again.
And both of them knew, somehow, that this time, it wouldn’t come undone so easily.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Hello guys, just want to say thank you a ton for reading and enjoying this fic so far… it’s been really fun. I love reading all of your comments, I read all although I may not respond to all… I do read them. Just thank you 😊
See you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow :)
Have a wonderful day or night and be safe wherever you are <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 25: The First Kiss of Truth
Summary:
And Till truly saw Ivan… not I.V, the flawless model who smiled for flashing lights, but the man behind the name. The one who trembled when he spoke his truth, whose voice cracked when he apologized, whose heart beat just as fast and desperate as his own.
He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t untouchable.
He was human.
And he was heartbreakingly beautiful.
Notes:
Reminder: Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The world around them felt hushed: like the city itself was holding its breath, afraid to disturb the fragile moment between two hearts learning to beat in rhythm again. The glow of lobby lights cast soft halos across them, gilding the model’s hair in muted gold and brushing along Till’s tear-streaked cheeks. Neither moved, neither spoke for a long moment… until suddenly, the smaller man bravely stepped forward and closed the distance between them fully.
He pressed himself into Ivan’s chest, arms circling the taller man’s torso tightly, clutching at the fabric of the silk shirt like he was afraid the other might disappear if he let go. The man stiffened for half a second… caught off guard by the intensity of it, but then his body softened, arms winding around him, pulling him close until there was no space left between them.
Till’s voice came out muffled against his chest. “Don’t ever hide anything from me again,” he whispered, his tone trembling but firm. “Even the smallest stuff. Don’t.”
The raven-head’s hold tightened instinctively, his breath unsteady as his chin brushed the top of silver head. “I won’t,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. “Never again. I promise.”
The words weren’t just a promise… they were a plea.
He leaned down, dipping his head and burying his face in Till’s shoulder. The faint scent of cologne and fabric softener lingered there, grounding him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “For making you cry… for hurting you.”
The other could feel it then: the faint tremor running through Ivan’s body. He wasn’t just emotional; he was shaking.
“I didn’t know it’d hurt this much,” the model confessed, voice low, trembling against his ear. “This… it’s the first time I’ve ever felt something like this for anyone, so I don’t really know what to do with it. It’s… embarrassing, honestly.”
Till’s face flushed, his heart hammering so loudly that he wondered if Ivan could hear it.
And the truth was… he could.
Pressed this close, the raven-head could hear everything. His heartbeat, quick and uneven. The faint hitch in his breath. The warmth of him, so human, so real.
Till truly saw Ivan then… not I.V, the flawless model who smiled for flashing lights, but the man behind the name. The one who trembled when he spoke his truth, whose voice cracked when he apologized, whose heart beat just as fast and desperate as his own.
He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t untouchable.
He was human.
And he was heartbreakingly beautiful.
His hands tightened in the fabric of his shirt, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out: quiet, impulsive, but utterly sincere.
“I want to kiss you,” he whispered. “So bad right now.”
Ivan froze, blinking. “…What?”
He flushed immediately, pulling back just enough to look at him, his face a mess of red embarrassment. “I—I mean… uh—” He cleared his throat, flustered beyond reason. “It’s just… I was thinking about it. And I realized… I don’t really have any experience with that. With… kissing. Other than that one time.”
Ivan’s lips parted, a small, incredulous laugh escaping before he could stop it. His heart felt like it was combusting inside his chest. He looked down at the smaller man: his flushed cheeks, his fidgeting hands, the way he tried to avert his eyes… and he thought he might actually die from how adorable he was.
Till covered his face once again and peeked up through his fingers, his voice small but steady now. “So… teach me.”
The other blinked. “Teach you?”
“How to kiss properly.”
Ivan almost did combust then. His heart practically exploded in his ribcage, his knees wobbled, and his brain short-circuited into a series of panicked, delighted static. He had to take a deep breath, running a trembling hand through his hair, trying to compose himself.
“Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath, half laughing, half wheezing. “You’re going to kill me.”
Till frowned softly. “You don’t have to if—”
“Yes,” he interrupted immediately, his voice slightly cracked before he cleared his throat and tried again, calmer. “Yes. I’ll… I’d love to teach you.”
His hands found the other’s face again, fingertips brushing over flushed skin with reverent care. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.
Till hesitated but obeyed, lashes fluttering shut. His breathing hitched.
Ivan stared at him for a long, quiet moment, just taking him in: the slope of his pretty nose, the faint tremor in his lips, the soft pink tint on his cheeks. His thumb swept gently across his lower lip, feeling the faint tremble beneath the touch.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice low.
His other hand slid around Till’s waist, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned, warmth pressing against warmth. The sudden intimacy made the smaller man release a soft, involuntary sigh that ghosted between them. Ivan’s breath stuttered, his resolve thinning.
“Good,” he whispered. “Just like that.”
And then… finally… he leaned in.
The first touch of their lips was featherlight, barely there. A brush of warmth, a pause, and then another: deeper this time, slower, surer. Till’s fingers clutched at his jacket instinctively, his heart pounding as the world around them dissolved into nothing but the feeling of each other.
Ivan kissed him carefully at first, coaxing him through it, letting him learn the rhythm. Their breaths mingled. The soft scrape of metal rang between them every time their labret piercings grazed: a faint, electric spark that made both of them shiver.
When they parted, teal eyes fluttered open slowly, his lips slightly swollen, his breathing unsteady. The raven-head smiled at him: soft, loving, impossibly tender.
“That was perfect,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “You’re a fast learner.”
Till laughed weakly, cheeks pink. “You’re a good teacher.”
Ivan’s gaze darkened slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Then maybe I should teach you again.”
The silver-head’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his chin up just slightly, and that was all the invitation the man needed.
This time, when their lips met, it wasn’t hesitant. It was more hungry: months of longing, confusion, heartbreak, and forgiveness poured into one unrestrained, dizzying kiss.
Till gasped softly against Ivan’s mouth, his hands sliding up to clutch at the other’s shoulders. Their mouths moved together in slow, desperate rhythm, lips parting, tongues meeting, metal clinking faintly as their piercings brushed again and again.
The model’s hand around his waist tightened, pulling him flush against him, while the other hand cupped his cheek, thumb tracing circles on his skin. Till melted into it, his knees weak, the world spinning.
When they finally broke apart, it was because Till’s legs gave out entirely. His knees buckled, and Ivan immediately caught him, lowering them both carefully to the ground. They ended up half sitting, half kneeling, breathless and tangled together on the cool lobby floor.
Their lips were red and slightly swollen, their faces mere inches apart, and both were grinning like fools.
Ivan was the first to laugh: quiet at first, then louder, freer than he’d laughed in months. Till joined in, the sound breaking through the silence like sunlight after rain.
“I’m so happy,” the raven-head said between laughs, his eyes crinkling. “God, you have no idea.”
Till’s smile softened. “I think I do,” he whispered, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “Because… me too.”
For a moment, there was nothing but them. The faint echo of laughter, the city lights reflected in their eyes, the sound of their joined breathing.
But then… a sound.
A sharp, excited squeal in the distance.
“I.V?! IS THAT I.V?!”
They froze.
Ivan blinked, still catching his breath, before glancing toward the direction of the voice just through the transparent panels of the lobby. A small group of fans had rounded there, faces lit up with excitement. He was silently glad that this area was a “No Photos” zone.
Till’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”
“Oh no indeed,” he muttered under his breath, already moving. He scrambled up, grabbing the smaller man’s hand as he did. “Come on!”
The other barely had time to react before Ivan was pulling him up, their fingers intertwining instinctively. Their eyes met briefly… a shared look of pure, chaotic understanding and then they were off.
Running.
Down the quiet lobby, away from the fans, from the flashes of cameras, from the world that only saw I.V, not Ivan. Their laughter echoed against the building, breathless and wild. Till clutched his hand tightly as they darted around a corner, hearts pounding, both of them grinning despite themselves.
They didn’t stop until they were out of the building and down the street, tucked behind a narrow alleyway glowing faintly from a convenience store sign.
They collapsed there, laughing uncontrollably, out of breath and flushed.
Ivan leaned against the wall, still holding the other’s hand, his head thrown back as he exhaled shakily. “We really just ran away from your fans,” Till said between bursts of laughter.
The model looked down at him, still breathless, eyes glinting with warmth. “From everything, actually.”
The smaller man smiled softly. “Just us, huh?”
Ivan nodded, squeezing his hand. “Just us.”
And that was enough.
For once, they didn’t need to explain themselves to the world.
They didn’t need to be I.V. and Till, model and designer.
They were simply Ivan and Till: two men in love, hearts still trembling but finally, finally free.
The night air wrapped around them gently, cool and alive, carrying the faint hum of the city that didn’t yet know what kind of story had just begun anew in its shadows.
Neither spoke after that. They didn’t need to.
The silence between them was full: of laughter, of breath, of love.
Of everything they’d been too afraid to say until now.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading today’s chapter and I shall see you in the next chapter hopefully tomorrow.
Guys I have to admit something 🥹 I totally haven’t edited tomorrow’s chapter yet and looking back at the draft for it, I am embarrassed to say it makes no sense so I would have to write it all over 🙂↕️✌️
I will try my best but if I can’t… then they may not be a chapter update tomorrow. I apologize in advance:(
Have a wonderful day or night and take care of yourself always <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 26: Crossing the Line
Summary:
Till fidgeted against him, twisting his hands nervously in the folds of his shirt. “You know...”
The man couldn’t help but smirk at the insinuation even if he felt excitement creeping through his body. “I don’t know. Tell me.”
His boyfriend let out a small huff, knowing he was getting played…
Notes:
Reminder: Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The soft hum of the city outside filtered faintly through the half-open window of Ivan’s penthouse. The warm glow of the evening streetlights painted the room in muted golds and ambers, brushing across the walls and the neatly arranged fashion sketches that lined one corner. It was quiet, peaceful. A rare moment of stillness for both of them in a world that rarely paused for long.
Till leaned against him, head resting lightly against his chest as the taller man’s arms circled him protectively. The faint scent of cologne and smoke filled the air, mixed with the lingering aroma of tea and biscuits they’d shared earlier. Ivan’s hair, streaked crimson, fell freely across his shoulders. Without the wig, the soft curl at the tips caught the light and he looked almost ethereal, almost fragile in the quiet.
It had been two months since they’d made everything official… since the walls of secrecy and misunderstanding had finally crumbled. Since then, they’d taken things slow. Very slow. Kisses, hand-holding, soft touches, cuddles that lasted hours on rare free days. Every step was a discovery, every brush of skin a careful exploration.
Till sighed softly, nuzzling into his chest. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, “sometimes I feel like I want… more.”
Ivan stiffened ever so slightly, though he didn’t pull away. His hands tightened just a fraction around his waist, and he tilted his chin down to look at him. “More?” he asked carefully, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.
The other flushed, his ears warming. “Yeah… you know. I mean… like… more than just cuddles and kisses. I… I want to be closer to you.”
The model’s fingers brushed through his silver hair, twirling it lightly at the ends. He chuckled softly, the warmth of it vibrating against his chest. “Closer… like how?”
Till fidgeted against him, twisting his hands nervously in the folds of his shirt. “You know...”
The man couldn’t help but smirk at the insinuation even if he felt excitement creeping through his body. “I don’t know. Tell me.”
His boyfriend let out a small huff, knowing he was getting played but with a soft whine and a warm flush ghosting his face he whispered, “like… s-sex.”
Ivan froze, just for a moment, and then smirked wider at him, eyes filled with amusement. “Oho~” His lips twitched. “You… want to do that now?”
Till’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I’ve wanted it for a while, but… you never… never seem to notice.” He bit his lower lip, nervous and desperate all at once. “I’ve been… trying to hint. I’ve been trying, but you… you stop before it gets… you know… serious.”
The raven-head’s chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath, processing the confession. The weight of his words pressed gently but insistently into his mind, and he realized how frustrated the other must have been. Two months of subtle touches, longing glances, small brushes of fingers, all misunderstood.
“I… I didn’t realize,” he admitted softly, voice low, almost vulnerable. “I thought… I thought you were happy with the way things were.”
Till shook his head, a small, frustrated laugh escaping him. “I am happy, but I also… I want more. I want you. All of you.”
His lover hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his flushed skin. “All of me?” he asked, the words heavy, tender. His voice dropped, thick with longing. “You want all of me?”
The smaller man nodded, biting his lip again before pressing a small kiss to his lips. “Yes… all of you. I want to be… closer. To feel everything… with you.”
Onyx eyes darkened then, pupils dilating as he took in the intensity of his boyfriend’s gaze. The soft kiss had been just a spark… now the fire was flaring. He leaned in, capturing his lips again, this time with more urgency, more hunger. The other responded instantly, pressing his body closer, hands sliding up to his shoulders, then to the nape of his neck, tangling in the soft hair there.
Ivan groaned softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he shifted them both so that Till was fully beneath him, heat radiating between their bodies. His hands slid down to his waist, then under his shirt to his bare hips, pulling him flush. Every brush of fingertips to his skin, every press of their bodies sent a shiver down both their spines.
The silver-head’s breath hitched, his hands shaking slightly around his lover’s neck. “I–Ivan…” he whispered, voice barely audible but full of longing. “Please… don’t stop. I’m ready.”
Said man hesitated for a brief second, looking into his eyes. There was a flicker of concern: an instinctive need to make sure he truly wanted this. But the way he was looking at him, the way his body pressed into his, the soft shiver that ran through him… it was undeniable. He wanted this. He wanted him.
His lips hovered over his again before he finally whispered, “If you’re sure… I’m yours. All of me.”
Till’s hands tightened in his hair, a soft laugh escaping him. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
They both shifted again, slipping out of the layers of clothing they wore until fabric no longer separated skin from skin.
The room lights cast shadows across Ivan’s muscle and Till’s smaller body as they sank into each other’s warmth.
The raven-head once again hovered above him, one hand braced beside his head, the other hand running down his smooth side.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured, mouth brushing the corner of a jaw. “You know that?”
A low sound: half flustered, half pleasure, rumbled from beneath him.
“You can’t just… say things like that.”
“But it’s true. Get used to it.”
Ivan then lowered his head, dragging his lips down the long line of his boyfriend’s throat, tongue darting out to taste the skin over his pulse. The body beneath him arched slightly: responsive, receptive.
Long fingers threaded into raven hair, keeping him close as he licked and kissed lower, tracing collarbones, sucking briefly at the dip of his chest before making his way further down.
When his mouth closed around one nipple, Till hissed sharply, hand tightening in his hair.
“Feels so weird, but g-good” he murmured, voice tinged with heat.
“Just embrace it, petal.” The other’s voice vibrated against his sensitive skin. “You’ll get used to it soon.”
His kisses trailed further down until he reached the familiar navel piercing. It made him pause for a moment to inspect it and a tinge of heat brushed his face too as he looked up at his lover’s face. “Is it healing well?”
“Mhm… y-yes.”
Ivan hummed and then dipped his head to press a light kiss on the piercing before he licked over it and slowly swirled his tongue around the area.
Till let out a soft whimper, arching up to him which made him smirk against his skin.
Moving further down, the raven-head traced his tongue all the way down to his lover’s hardened cock. For a moment, he just lingered… eyes dark with want.
With another arch and a whine from Till, Ivan got all the answers he needed so he leaned in, lips parted to kiss at the tip: slow and wet, before he eased his way into taking it into his mouth.
The smaller man’s back arched more, a shaky moan escaping before he could hold it in.
His lover took his time. Licked around the head, sucked him deep and slow, letting saliva run messily down the shaft before bobbing back up, eyes locked with his the entire time.
The sight below him made heat coil in his gut: Till, flushed, brows drawn, lips parted, unraveling under each motion of tongue and palm.
But just as the tightness began to build, Ivan pulled off with a final lick and pressed a final kiss just above the base.
“Not yet,” he whispered, voice ragged with control. “I want to be inside you when you cum for the first time.”
Till let out a sob of displeasure.
“I-Ivan… please.”
“Have some patience, petal. I promise it’ll be worthwhile.”
He reached beside the bed for the small bottle of lube tucked in his drawer, uncorked it, and poured a generous amount onto his fingers.
Till shifted, still flushed but parted his legs without being told, knees bending and opening up to expose himself fully.
The raven-head exhaled sharply, gaze hungry.
“You’re seriously gonna kill me,” he murmured.
“S-stop teasing me,” came the breathless reply.
Ivan moved up and kissed him again: deep, messy, and warm…while his hand slid down between soft thighs, fingertips circling the tight ring of muscle. He moved slowly, teasing first with one finger, easing in until it was fully sheathed. His lover sobbed softly, hips tilting forward, body tensing at the unfamiliar sensation.
“F-feels so weird,” Till whined out, closing his eyes at the stinging pain that shot through him.
“It would be… but once I loosen you up a bit, it’ll get better babe.” Ivan reassured gently, pressing a sweet kiss onto his inner thigh.
This seem to help his lover relaxed a bit because within a few more minutes, he could easily slid in a second finger, twisting slightly to stretch him further.
The pace was steady but patient: knuckles deep, fingers scissoring until he felt the tight channel begin to open up willingly. By the time the third entered, the smaller man beneath him was panting, hands fisting the sheets, eyes squeezed shut in building need.
“Ready?”
The answer was a low whine. “P-please.”
Ivan withdrew, coating himself quickly with some of the lube before lining up at the slicked and stretched entrance.
He leaned in close, forehead pressed to his lover’s, and pushed forward slowly.
The heat, the tightness…it dragged a guttural sound from deep in his throat.
Till sucked in a breath, tears falling down his face but his legs tightened around his waist as he was slowly filled, inch by inch.
“Fuck—” the raven-head gritted out. “You feel so… so tight… so perfect.”
The other’s hands gripped his back, fingernails digging in.
“Please m-move.”
He obeyed.
He rocked forward, pulling out only halfway before sliding back in, hips pressing flush against skin. The first few thrusts were slow, letting them both feel it: every stretch, every drag of friction, every low gasp that passed between them.
All Till could think of was his lover: both Ivan and I.V were inside him and it felt so euphoric to experience this. It felt as if he was making love with the two at the same time and that thought seemed to make him unravel.
Their foreheads stayed pressed together, noses brushing, breath mingling.
Ivan adjusted slightly, angling his hips.
His lover choked on a moan when the next thrust struck on a particular spot.
“I-Ivan!” he gasped, eyes fluttering.
Said man grinned breathlessly. “There, huh?”
He kept abusing that spot, again and again, until the smaller man beneath him was shaking, voice broken with every exhale.
The pace quickened.
Rhythm built between them: thrust and grind, moan and groan. Skin slapped against skin, wet with sweat, punctuated by kisses between harsh breaths. Till eventually met thrusts with his own, legs locked tightly around his lover’s waist, pulling him deeper, demanding more.
“You feel…so fucking good—” the model gasped, forehead dropping to his shoulder. “Can’t get enough of you!”
A strangled cry left the other’s throat as his prostate was nailed again. “Don’t stop… please fuck… please d-don’t stop!”
Ivan reached down between them, hand wrapping around his lover’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
The body beneath him arched sharply.
“Something w-weird is happening…”
“Release baby… cum for me,” the man whispered, thrusting deeper. “Cum while I’m inside you.”
With a cry, Till shattered: back arching, cum spilling hot between them, chest heaving.
The pulsing clench of inner muscles around him sent his boyfriend spiraling right after. He thrust in hard once, twice more, then groaned as he came, releasing deep inside his lover.
They stayed locked like that for a long
moment, shuddering through it together.
Only when the trembling eased did he finally collapse forward, arms braced so he didn’t fully crush him.
Ivan soon shifted to the side and pulled Till close, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, murmuring, “I’ve never… never felt anything like this.”
The other nuzzled into his chest, smiling against his shoulder. “Neither have I… and I don’t want to ever stop feeling it.”
His lover chuckled, voice low and warm, fingers tracing circles along his bare back. “Good. Because you won’t. Not ever.”
Till lifted his head slightly, eyes glinting with mischief despite the lingering blush on his cheeks. “So… you’re not going to look over me next time I try to… hint?”
Ivan smirked, leaning down to press a teasing kiss to his cute nose. “Oh, I won’t,” he whispered. “Not ever. You can have me anytime you want.”
The smaller man laughed softly, burying his face in his chest again, warmth spreading through him. “Good. Because I plan on taking full advantage of that.”
His boyfriend tightened his arms around him, smiling softly, heart thundering. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
The night stretched before them, quiet, intimate, filled with whispered confessions, soft touches, and the newfound joy of shared desire. They had crossed a line, yes, but in doing so, they had found something infinitely deeper: a bond, a trust, and a love that neither time nor misunderstanding could break.
And in that intimate silence, heavy with desire, trust, and affection, they pressed closer, hearts pounding, bodies trembling, yet fully in sync, savoring every touch, every shiver, every brush of lips… without needing words, without needing anything else but each other.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Guys I did it! But it’s not the best… i totally suck ass at writing smut so it possibly can feel very rushed. I do admit I’ve recycled some parts of the scene from another one of my fics because well simply I really had no idea how to make them fuck without inspiration🥹🙂↕️✌️
Also just realized watching my chapters I totally missed two chapters I didn’t write yet. So there is 28 chapters and then the last 2 I haven’t even started… thankfully I have a big brain with weirdass ideas so I will make something work out for sure!
Anyways… I still hope you enjoy it a bit and I shall see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow :)
Until then, have a wonderful day or night <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 27: Meeting the Hwans
Summary:
“I can’t do this,” he whispered, eyes wide as they stopped in front of a sleek black gate guarded by two attendants in suits. “Ivan, I can’t… what was I thinking… what were you thinking—”
His lover reached over and squeezed his hand, calm, firm. “You were thinking you’d come with me because I asked you to,” he said, lips curling into a teasing smile. “And because you love me.”
Till groaned, leaning his forehead against the dashboard. “That was before I remembered your last name is Hwan! You could have warned me sooner!”
Notes:
Reminder: Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The soft purr of the car engine was the only sound breaking through the thick silence between them. Till sat in the passenger seat, clutching his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. His stomach twisted with nerves as he glanced sideways at Ivan, who was far too calm for someone about to introduce his boyfriend to his family… the Hwan family.
The name itself carried weight. The Hwans weren’t just any family. They were practically Korean royalty in the industries of fashion, architecture, and media. To be a Hwan was to walk in a spotlight cast by generations of success and power.
And Till, sitting in an oversized sweater and slacks, suddenly felt painfully ordinary.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered, eyes wide as they stopped in front of a sleek black gate guarded by two attendants in suits. “Ivan, I can’t… what was I thinking… what were you thinking—”
His lover reached over and squeezed his hand, calm, firm. “You were thinking you’d come with me because I asked you to,” he said, lips curling into a teasing smile. “And because you love me.”
Till groaned, leaning his forehead against the dashboard. “That was before I remembered your last name is Hwan! You could have warned me sooner!”
“I did,” the other said lightly, tapping in the security code on the keypad. “You just didn’t listen. You were too distracted kissing me.”
Till froze and gawked at him. “You! That’s!” He sputtered incoherently as the gate opened, and Ivan’s low chuckle filled the car.
“Relax,” the raven-head said softly. “They’ll love you.”
⸻
The Hwan estate wasn’t a house… it was practically a modern palace. The glass walls gleamed under the soft afternoon sun, surrounded by carefully manicured gardens and a private courtyard that could easily host an entire gala.
Till swallowed hard. He’d seen luxury before, but this was different. This was untouchable.
He followed his lover up the marble steps, trying not to trip over his own feet or sweat through his sweater. His heart thudded as they reached the tall glass doors.
Before Ivan could even ring the bell, the doors opened, and a woman stepped out: tall, elegant, and radiating effortless power. Her long raven hair cascaded down her back, glossy as silk, and her onyx eyes were sharp yet warm.
Till recognized her immediately. Hwan Irene: CEO of Hwan Atelier, one of the most influential design houses in the world. The woman was a legend.
“Ibanny, my darling,” she greeted smoothly, opening her arms as he leaned down to hug her. Her voice carried the soft lilt of someone used to commanding a room. “You don’t call, you don’t visit and suddenly you appear with a cute young man at your side?”
Till stiffened, his throat suddenly dry. (Cute young man?!)
“Eomma,” Ivan said with a knowing sigh, “please don’t start already.”
“I’m just stating the obvious,” Irene replied, eyes sweeping toward the smaller man. Her smile softened. “And you must be Till. Ivan’s been… quite secretive about you.”
The silver-head bowed quickly, practically folding in half. “M-Ma’am… it’s an honor to meet you. I—”
“Oh, stop that.” Irene waved a perfectly manicured hand, laughing lightly. “Call me Irene. Or, if you prefer, eomeoni.”
He blinked, frozen in place. “E-Eomeoni?”
“Yes,” she said smoothly. “If you’re dating my son, I don’t see the point of formality.”
Till felt his ears burn so hard he thought he might combust. Ivan, beside him, tried to hide a grin.
“Come inside, both of you,” she said, turning gracefully on her heel.
⸻
The interior was just as breathtaking as the outside: modern and warm, filled with elegant wood tones, floor-to-ceiling windows, and paintings that Till recognized from art magazines.
“Sweetheart, your father’s in the garden,” Irene said as they walked through the hall. “And Sua’s home, too. She’s been dying to meet you, by the way.”
“Dying?” Ivan muttered. “That’s never good.”
As they entered the garden, Till spotted two figures by the koi pond. One, a tall man with a calm aura, his raven hair streaked with grey but violet eyes sharp and kind. The other, a young woman with medium-length raven hair and the same violet eyes but it sparkled mischievously.
“Ah, there’s our youngest,” the man said, smiling as his son approached. “You’ve been keeping us waiting, Ibanny.”
“Sorry, Appa,” Ivan greeted, throwing his arms around him for a quick but tight hug.
Till quickly stepped forward, bowing low again. “Sir…it’s… an honor to meet you.”
Ju-Yeon chuckled softly. “No need for that. Call me Ju-Yeon or Abeoji.”
The other blinked, unsure how to even respond, and the older man smiled knowingly. “Relax, son. You look like you’re about to take an exam.”
That only made his nerves worse. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Sua had already made her move.
“So this is the famous Till,” she said, stepping forward, eyes glimmering with mischief. “The one who managed to make my cold-hearted little brother fall in love.”
Till flushed immediately. “Ah…Sua-ssi! It’s… it’s nice to meet you!”
The woman laughed, covering her mouth delicately. “No, no. ‘Sua-ssi’? That’s too formal. You should call me Noona.”
His brain short-circuited. “N-Noona?!”
“Yes,” she said with a grin, tilting her head playfully. “Unless you’re older than me, which I doubt.”
“I—uh—no, I’m not,” he stammered, cheeks burning bright pink.
“Then Noona it is,” she said sweetly, patting his arm. “I like him already.”
Ivan groaned, rubbing his face. “Please don’t scare him.”
“Oh, I’m not scaring him,” Sua said innocently. “I’m just… getting to know him.”
Irene joined her daughter with a soft smile, eyes twinkling. “He’s adorable, isn’t he? So polite. I was expecting someone shy and quiet, but he’s even cuter in person.”
Till was officially dying inside. He could feel his lover’s smirk burning at the side of his face.
“Eomma,” Ivan muttered, stepping subtly closer, his hand brushing the other’s waist protectively. “You’re going to make him explode.”
Ju-Yeon chuckled. “Better than making him run away. I like him already, too.”
Till blinked up, startled. “Y-You do?”
The older man nodded. “You’re respectful, polite, and clearly loves our son. That’s enough for me.”
The smaller man heart stuttered. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted their approval until now. He bowed again, voice shaky. “Thank you, sir….abeoji… I mean—thank you!”
Laughter rippled through the family, warm and genuine, and Ivan couldn’t help but chuckle too, wrapping his arm tightly around his waist.
“See?” He murmured softly near his ear. “Told you they’d love you.”
Till glanced up at him, his heart pounding from both relief and embarrassment. “You could have warned me they’d tease me to death.”
“No fun in that,” he whispered with a grin.
⸻
Lunch was… chaos… in the most charming way.
Irene insisted on personally serving the dishes herself, despite their staff offering to handle it. “It’s been too long since I’ve cooked for my son,” she said fondly, plating dishes with precision.
Sua, meanwhile, sat next to Till, alternating between offering him food and making him laugh with past memories. “You should’ve seen him in middle school,” she said at one point, nodding at Ivan. “Total nerd. Glasses, bowl cut—”
“I swear to God, Noona.” The raven-head cut in, glaring, but she only laughed harder.
Till nearly choked on his water. “No way… he had a bowl cut?!”
“Babe,” Ivan responded warningly, voice low, but his lover was laughing too hard to care.
Even Ju-Yeon cracked a smile, quietly sipping his tea while his wife chuckled into her hand.
“Oh, this is delightful,” Irene said, watching the two boys with fondness. “I haven’t seen my son this animated in years.”
At that, Ivan blinked, a bit taken aback. His mother’s tone wasn’t teasing anymore… it was warm, honest.
Till noticed, too. The room softened for a moment, and he reached under the table to squeeze his hand. Ivan looked at him, eyes tender, a small smile pulling at his lips.
⸻
After lunch, as they walked through the garden again, Irene and Ju-Yeon excused themselves to take a business call, leaving Till and Ivan alone with Sua.
“You know,” she said after a beat, “you really do make him happy.”
Till blinked, surprised by the sudden sincerity in her tone.
She smiled, the mischief fading for a moment. “He’s been through a lot, my little brother. Seeing him like this… it’s good.”
His chest warmed. “He makes me happy too,” he said quietly, looking toward Ivan, who stood by the koi pond, feeding the fishes with calm focus. “He’s… everything, honestly.”
Sua nodded slowly, then smirked again. “Well, just know, if you ever hurt him, I have a very particular set of skills.”
Till paled instantly. “W-What kind of skills…”
“I’m kidding,” she responded with a wink, laughing as she patted his shoulder. “Mostly.”
When she walked away, leaving them alone, Ivan turned to him with a small grin. “So? How bad was it?”
He stared at him for a long moment before sighing dramatically. “You’re lucky I love you. That’s all I’ll say.”
His lover chuckled and pulled him closer, kissing the top of his head. “You did perfectly.”
Till melted against him, the warmth of the family, the laughter, and the love all settling deep in his heart. For the first time, the thought struck him… he belonged here.
In Ivan’s world. In his family. In his heart.
And as the man wrapped his arms around him in that peaceful garden, he couldn’t help but smile, whispering softly, “I really like your family.”
The other chuckled, brushing his lips over his temple. “Good,” he murmured. “Because they already love you.”
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading this chapter and I hope to see you in the next chapter update most likely tomorrow:)
Ps: I have drafted the final two chapters so I just have to edit them now hehe ;)
Until then, take care and be safe wherever you are <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 28: The Man Beneath the Wig
Summary:
“You don’t have a partner either, huh?”
Ivan looked up slowly, his hidden eyes lifting beneath the shadow of his bucket hat. For a moment, it was like time folded in on itself… because those words, that line, mirrored the very first thing he had ever said to Till in this same classroom.
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “You remembered,” he murmured, voice low.
The other smirked. “Of course I did.”
Ivan tilted his head, pretending to sigh deeply as he leaned back in his chair. “Do I… have to?” he said dramatically. “Can’t I just work alone?”
Notes:
Reminder: Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The morning sunlight spilled lazily through the tall windows of the classroom, catching the glimmer of scissors, thread spools, and rolls of fabric stacked high on the worktables. A low hum of chatter filled the air as students gathered, sipping coffee, flipping through sketchbooks, and gossiping about the upcoming end of year project announcement.
Till sat at his usual desk, tapping his pencil against his sketchbook as he stole glances toward the back of the room… toward him.
Ivan… disguised once again in his oversized hoodie, bucket hat, and curly raven wig… was slouched in his chair, clearly pretending to scroll on his iPad. The slight slouch of his posture made him look nothing like I.V., the confident model the world admired. Instead, he looked like an average college student, quiet and harmless.
Till had to bite back a smile. It still amused him how convincing his disguise was. Nobody suspected a thing. If anything, most students overlooked him completely. Some even whispered that he was “weirdly quiet” or “mysterious.”
If only they knew.
The smaller man’s lips twitched. He loved that he knew both sides of him now: the larger-than-life I.V., bold and magnetic, and the quieter, slightly awkward Ivan who still got needle pricks on his fingers and muttered to himself while sketching. Both were real. Both were his.
The classroom door opened with a click, and their professor entered, holding a stack of printed sheets. “Alright, everyone, settle down,” she said, her voice sharp but warm. “It’s time to discuss your next project.”
A collective groan rippled through the room, followed by nervous laughter.
“This project,” the professor continued, “will focus on innovation through collaboration.” She began handing out the sheets. “You’ll be working in pairs again: designing, creating, and presenting a cohesive collection inspired by modern art.”
Till’s heart jumped. (Pairs again.)
The professor smiled faintly. “Choose your partners wisely. I want to see growth, balance, and teamwork.”
Instantly, the room buzzed with chatter. Students turned to their friends, whispering names, debating choices. He glanced around and saw his classmates grouping up: some eagerly, some reluctantly.
And then, his eyes drifted back to Ivan.
The other hadn’t moved an inch. He sat with his elbows on the desk, eyes fixed on his notes as if none of this concerned him. The sight made Till grin.
He stood up from his seat and began walking toward the back of the room.
A few heads turned, whispers fluttering as he crossed the classroom. He stopped right beside his lover’s desk and leaned down slightly, his voice soft but teasing.
“You don’t have a partner either, huh?”
Ivan looked up slowly, his hidden eyes lifting beneath the shadow of his bucket hat. For a moment, it was like time folded in on itself… because those words, that line, mirrored the very first thing he had ever said to Till in this same classroom.
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “You remembered,” he murmured, voice low.
The other smirked. “Of course I did.”
Ivan tilted his head, pretending to sigh deeply as he leaned back in his chair. “Do I… have to?” he said dramatically. “Can’t I just work alone?”
Till blinked and then burst into laughter, realizing the man had perfectly mimicked his own response from that day.
“Oh, my God,” he said between laughs. “You’re impossible.”
His lover grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I learned from the best.”
Their laughter melted into something warm… familiar, private. Around them, the classroom chatter continued, but it felt distant, blurred, like the world had momentarily faded into background noise.
Their professor glanced at them from across the room, arching a brow, clearly amused. “I assume you two have already chosen each other then?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Till said quickly, grinning as Ivan smiled in amusement.
“Good,” she said, nodding approvingly. “I expect great things from you two again.”
As soon as she turned away, the raven-head leaned in, whispering under his breath, “Now we actually have to deliver again, you know.”
Till chuckled softly. “When have we not?”
⸻
The rest of the day passed in a blur of sketches and fabric samples. By the time classes ended, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in hues of peach and lilac.
The couple walked side by side through the quiet campus, their fingers brushing occasionally as they talked about project ideas.
“I was thinking we could explore something more minimalistic this time,” Till said thoughtfully, looking at the sky. “Something that contrasts our last collection. Maybe something that feels… honest.”
Ivan nodded, his voice soft. “Honest suits us.”
The smaller man smiled at that. “Honest does suit us.”
They reached Till’s apartment not long after, the familiar creak of the door welcoming them in. Ivan immediately tossed his backpack onto the floor, rolling his shoulders.
“I swear,” he said, stretching, “this wig is going to kill me one day. It’s hot as hell under it.”
He reached up, fingers already tugging at the base of the wig… but before he could take it off, his boyfriend caught his wrist.
He blinked in surprise. “What’s wrong?”
Till stepped closer, his eyes soft but determined. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”
Ivan frowned slightly, confused. “You want me to keep it on?”
The other nodded slowly. His voice came out in a whisper. “This version of you… deserves to be loved too.”
He froze. His breath hitched, eyes wide beneath the shadow of his hat.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, the faintest blush crept across his cheeks. He swallowed, his voice coming out rough. “Till…”
But the silver-head was already moving…closing the distance between them, climbing gently onto his lap where Ivan sat at the edge of the bed. His knees pressed against his thighs as his hands rested on the other’s chest.
“This Ivan,” Till whispered, fingers brushing the edge of the wig, “is still you. The you that works hard. The you that tries to hide from the world but never from me. I want to love every version of you.”
Said man exhaled slowly, his hands instinctively finding his lover’s waist, holding him steady. His heartbeat was pounding so hard Till could feel it through his chest.
“You’re going to kill me one day,” he murmured with a shaky laugh. “You know that, right?”
The smaller man smiled, leaning forward to press his forehead against his. “Not today.”
Then their lips met.
It was soft at first; a slow, tender kiss, tasting faintly of coffee and warmth. Ivan’s hands tightened slightly on his boyfriend’s waist, anchoring him closer. Till’s fingers curled against his hoodie, pulling him in deeper.
The wig, the hat, the disguise… all of it suddenly felt irrelevant and yet sacred in its own way. Till wasn’t kissing I.V., the idol, nor Ivan, the designer. He was kissing the man who existed between those two identities… the one who only existed here, in this quiet apartment, with him.
Ivan let out a soft sigh against his lips, the sound melting into the rhythm of their kiss. The other tilted his head, deepening it, his lips parting as his lover’s tongue brushed gently against his.
The kiss grew slower, heavier… less frantic than before, more assured. Till’s fingers slid up to cup his face, feeling the slight texture of the wig’s edges beneath his fingertips, but it didn’t matter. If anything, it made the moment more real.
When they finally pulled back, he was breathless. Ivan looked at him through half-lidded eyes, his lips flushed and slightly parted.
“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered.
Till smiled faintly. “You love that about me.”
Ivan chuckled softly, resting his forehead against his. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I really fucking do.”
They stayed like that for a while: the smaller man straddling his lap, Ivan’s arms wrapped around him, both of them breathing in sync. The world outside was quiet, but between them, the silence was full: of laughter, of warmth, of quiet understanding.
Eventually, Till shifted, brushing his thumb over his cheek. “Hey,” he murmured, “I was serious, you know.”
“About what?”
“Loving every version of you.”
Ivan’s lips curved into a small, tender smile, before teasing, “Then I guess I’ll have to work on loving every version of you too.”
His boyfriend tilted his head in amusement. “Even the annoying one who keeps teasing you in class?”
“Especially that one,” the man responded with a laugh, pulling him closer.
Their laughter faded into another kiss, one softer than the last. The disguise, the bucket hat, the wig… it all stayed on, but in that moment, none of it was a barrier. It was just another layer of who Ivan was.
And Till loved all of it.
⸻
Later that night, they ended up sprawled on the bed, a half-finished sketchbook lying open beside them, lines of fabric ideas and design notes scattered across the pages, their clothing barely on.
Till leaned against Ivan’s bare chest, tracing lazy circles over his skin while Ivan absentmindedly ran his fingers down his back.
“Do you ever get tired of pretending?” His lover asked softly.
He thought for a long moment. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I remember why I started pretending in the first place. To live freely. To chase what I love.”
Till turned his head slightly, meeting his eyes. “And do you still love it?”
The model smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Especially now.”
His boyfriend closed his eyes, breathing in his warmth. The bucket hat tilted slightly, falling to the side, and Ivan laughed softly as it landed on his shoulder.
“You’re ridiculous,” Till mumbled into his chest.
“Only for you,” he murmured back.
And for the rest of the evening, as the city lights flickered outside, the two of them stayed there: entwined, laughing softly, sketching between kisses and making out. The world could wait. The masks, the names, the stages… none of it mattered right now.
Here, it was just Ivan and Till.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading this chapter and I shall see you in the next chapter update hopefully tomorrow:)
Ps: I have added two additional chapters so it’s gonna 32 chapters now ;)
Until then, have a wonderful day or night and be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 29: The Setup
Summary:
“So your bestie,” he started, leaning back with a smirk, “is Noona’s fangirl.”
“Ivan—”
“And Noona,” he added, rubbing his chin dramatically, “loves admirers.”
Till stared. “…She does?”
“Oh yeah,” he said proudly. “She feeds off it. If you tell her someone likes her, she will materialize beside them like a summoned demon.”
Notes:
Reminder: Hey guys before you read the chapter, I am thinking about making a discord for us to simp over Alien Stage and IvanTill… so if you’re interested please let me know in the comments. I will be making it according to how much of y’all will be joining… and if I do make it… it would be at the end of this fic :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Till hadn’t meant to start the conversation that evening. It just… slipped out between the comfortable warmth of Ivan’s arms around his waist and the faint hum of the space heater in his apartment. The man had come over after classes, still in his disguise: the curly raven wig slightly crooked, his oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, and the bucket hat threatening to fall off at any moment. Till kept poking the edge of it, teasing him. Ivan kept catching his hand, kissing his fingertips, nibbling his knuckles to make him blush.
It was perfect. Soft. Domestic.
And then the smaller man casually said:
“So, uh… I kinda wanna set up my best friend with your sister.”
His lover blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then tilted his head like a confused cat, lips parting slightly. “…Huh?”
Till, realizing he’d said it out loud, panicked just enough to make him ramble. “M-Mizi… my best friend. The one I told you about. Pink hair, green eyes, talks like she’s had ten coffees even when she hasn’t? She… okay… um, she has a crush on Sua Noona. Like… a big one. A really big one. And I just thought… since we’ve been, you know, dating and everything, and… and maybe we could introduce them? I mean, only if Noona is okay with it, and only if Mizi doesn’t die of shock, and—”
Ivan cut him off by bursting into laughter.
He pouted instantly. “Don’t laugh!”
“I’m not—” the raven-head coughed, still shaking, “I’m not laughing at you, baby. I’m laughing because you just planned a whole romcom scenario in a few seconds flat.”
Till flushed a deep, embarrassed red.
Ivan leaned down and kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. “Alright. Tell me about her.”
And he did.
He told him everything: about how Mizi had been with him through everything, how she was the one he trusted most outside of Ivan, how she was so happy the first time he told her he had feelings for I.V. He told him how she had supported him, how she too loved fashion, how she adored Sua’s work, and how she’d nearly passed out when he told her he’d met her before.
He expected Ivan to listen politely.
He didn’t expect him to grin like a man discovering mischief for the first time.
“So your bestie,” he started, leaning back with a smirk, “is Noona’s fangirl.”
“Ivan—”
“And Noona,” he added, rubbing his chin dramatically, “loves admirers.”
Till stared. “…She does?”
“Oh yeah,” he said proudly. “She feeds off it. If you tell her someone likes her, she will materialize beside them like a summoned demon.”
The smaller man slapped his arm, laughing. “Ivan!”
“What?” his lover pressed a hand to his chest. “My sister is terrifying!”
Till rolled his eyes fondly. “But you love her.”
The other sighed in defeat. “Yeah… I do.”
There was a pause before Ivan nudged him with his shoulder. “So when do I meet her?”
Till brightened instantly. “Really?!”
“Of course.” Ivan kissed him again. “You love her. That’s enough for me.”
⸻
Turns out, Ivan was not prepared.
Not even remotely.
The first time he met Mizi was at the cozy café … the friends usual spot. Till arrived a few minutes early with him, who kept adjusting his disguise.
“No one’s going to recognize me here, right?” Ivan whispered as he slouched in his oversized hoodie.
Till deadpanned at him. “Ivan. You are six foot one.”
“I’m a normal six foot one,” he argued. “I.V is a glamorous six foot one.”
His boyfriend snorted. “Please behave.”
“I’m always behaved.”
“You are not behaved.”
Ivan opened his mouth to disagree but the bell above the café door chimed and Mizi entered.
Her long cotton-candy pink hair bounced behind her, her green eyes wide as she searched the room. She spotted Till first.
“BESTIE!” she squealed, practically tackling him in a hug.
Her friend wheezed. “H-Hi.”
Then she noticed Ivan.
And her brain stopped working.
She froze mid-hug, eyes squinting, head tilting.
“Till,” she whispered loudly, “why is I.V wearing a disguise.”
Till panicked and shushed her before they could gain attention. “He’s—he’s not I.V.”
Ivan, for some reason, decided to wave awkwardly.
That did not help.
Mizi gasped. “OH MY GOD HE EVEN WAVES LIKE HIM.”
Till clapped a hand over her mouth. “Mizi. Stop.”
She slowly nodded… and then made a muffled sound that absolutely meant, ‘I can’t stop, bestie, I’m dying.’
The raven-head couldn’t hold back laughter.
Once she finally settled into her seat… still in shock, they started introducing themselves.
Ivan, putting on the most polite voice he could manage, said, “H-hello. I’m… um—Ivan.”
Mizi stared. “No. Absolutely not. Who are you trying to fool with that voice?”
Till smacked his lover’s arm. “Stop messing with her!”
The woman turned to him with an offended gasp. “You didn’t tell me you two were officially DATING. With a capital D. Are you kidding me?! You’re dating I.V? THE I.V? The one with the crimson streaks, the jawline, the runway strut that slayed my soul in 2022?! THAT ONE?!”
Till covered his face. “Please lower your voice. We don’t want any of his fans hearing.”
Mizi did not lower her voice.
“Oh my god,” she whispered at a slightly lower volume, “I’m meeting your hot boyfriend in real life. Am I sweating? I’m sweating. Till, is this real?”
Ivan tried to be polite but was clearly fighting laughter. “It’s nice to meet you, Mizi-ssi.”
She stared at him for a full five seconds.
Then pointed dramatically. “DON’T YOU DARE USE YOUR PROFESSIONAL VOICE ON ME.”
Till groaned. “Mizi—”
“WHAT,” she hissed, “I can hear the expensive skincare in his tone.”
The model actually wheezed.
But strangely enough… after the initial shock… they all settled naturally. Mizi was chaotic, loud, fast-talking. Ivan was calm, amused, quietly intrigued. Till watched them with a warmth in his chest; his favorite person and his one and only meeting, getting along, laughing.
When she left… after loudly promising she would not tell anyone about Ivan’s disguise (she absolutely threatened multiple strangers who walked past)… the raven-head stood beside Till with his hands in his pockets.
“She’s chaos,” he said with a grin.
“She’s great,” the smaller man corrected.
“She’s amazing,” Ivan admitted. “I love her already.”
Till nudged him. “So… do you think Noona would like her?”
Ivan hummed thoughtfully. “Let me put it this way… if Noona finds out someone that pretty, that passionate, and that dramatic likes her?”
The other raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“She will hunt her down.”
Till laughed and shoved him. “Ivan!”
“I’m being serious!” The man said, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him close. “Noona loves fans. And Mizi is… beyond a fan.”
Till leaned his forehead against his chest, giggling. “Then what do we do?”
Ivan’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
“We set them up.”
His lover blinked. “How?”
“Ohhh, baby,” the other murmured, cupping his cheeks with both hands, brushing his thumbs over his lower lip. “You forget who you’re dating.”
Till’s heart stuttered.
Ivan smirked.
“We’re going to plan this. Thoroughly.”
Till flushed, both from the plan and the way his boyfriend was looking at him.
“What do I do?” He whispered.
Ivan kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose, then his mouth: slow, tender, mischievous.
“You,” he murmured, “text Mizi a bit later.”
Till nodded.
“I,” he continued, “will call Noona.”
The silver-head pulled back slightly. “Wait—like today?”
Ivan grinned. “Oh, definitely today.”
That night, they laid side-by-side on Till’s bed, planning. The taller man tangled their legs together as he called his sister, who instantly answered with a dramatic, “What do you want, baby brother?”
“I have someone I want you to meet,” he said, eyes sliding to Till.
The other covered his smile with his hand.
Sua cackled. “Oh? Are you playing matchmaker now?”
Till mouthed yes at Ivan. Ivan nodded confidently.
“Maybe,” he revealed.
His boyfriend grabbed his arm in shock. “Ivan!”
“The person is your fan,” he added casually.
There was silence.
Then a slow, dangerous hum.
“…Go on.”
Till burst out laughing.
Mizi, meanwhile, was texting him aggressively.
“BESTIE WHAT ARE WE DOING SATURDAY? WHY DID YOU ASK IF I’M FREE. WHY DO I FEEL LIKE THIS IS A SETUP. IS THIS A SETUP. ARE YOU SETTING ME UP. TILL TELL ME RIGHT NOW.”
Till only sent back:
“Wear something cute.”
Mizi replied in all caps:
“T”
“I”
“L”
“L”
The man snorted into his pillow.
Ivan wrapped an arm around his waist, resting his chin on Till’s shoulder. “We’re evil.”
“We are,” he responded proudly.
The raven-head kissed him once, soft and slow. “But it’s for love.”
Till smiled. “Everything is.”
They planned the location. The timing. The entrance. The excuse. Ivan even practiced a fake scenarios on how it would potentially play out. Till nearly fell off the bed laughing.
And that night, as the model held his lover close, warm breath brushing his neck, he murmured,
“Your chaos is rubbing off on me.”
Till giggled softly. “Good.”
The plan was set.
Sua was ready.
Mizi was suspicious.
And the couple?
They had never felt more like conspirators in a romantic crime.
The double date… no, the setup… was officially in motion.
And neither Mizi nor Sua saw it coming.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very, very soon.
Their little scheme was about to turn two unsuspecting women into a flustered, chaotic mess.
And Ivan and Till?
They couldn’t wait.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading and see you in the next chapter guys :)
Be safe and have a wonderful day or night <3
With Love,
mixciii~(This chapter may be edited sometime today or soon because I haven’t proofread it properly.)
Chapter 30: The Collision Course
Summary:
Mizi marched toward them with the exact expression of a woman about to interrogate two suspects.
She slid into the seat beside Till, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Okay. TALK.”
Her friend tried to act innocent. “About what?”
“You told me to wear something cute.” She jabbed his shoulder. “You asked if I was free. You refused to tell me what we’re doing. This is suspicious behavior, Till. I’ve watched K-dramas. I know the signs.”
Ivan hid a laugh behind his hand.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Saturday arrived faster than any of them anticipated.
Till had spent the entire morning pacing around his living room, fixing and un-fixing his hair, practicing neutral expressions so he wouldn’t look too guilty when Mizi inevitably interrogated him. Ivan watched from the couch… legs spread lazily, arms crossed behind his head, his raven hair falling around his shoulders, crimson streaks glinting under the lights.
He wasn’t disguised today.
And his lover also kept staring at him like he forgot how to breathe.
The man’s lips curled. “You’re nervous.”
Till froze mid-pace. “I am not.”
Ivan raised a brow.
The other deflated. “Okay… maybe a little.”
“Baby,” he called, tugging him closer by the wrist until he toppled onto his lap, “you’re acting like we’re orchestrating a political assassination, not a date.”
Till groaned into his shoulder. “It feels like one! What if they don’t like each other? What if it’s awkward? What if Noona thinks we’re insane?”
Ivan snorted. “Noona already knows I’m insane.”
His boyfriend swatted his chest. He caught his hand and kissed his palm.
“They’re going to like each other,” he murmured confidently, brushing Till’s bangs back. “Trust me.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because,” Ivan smirked, “they’re both terrifyingly pretty and aggressively passionate. They’re basically the same Pokémon type.”
Till cackled. “That’s not how compatibility works.”
“It is in my world.”
⸻
The restaurant was a dimly lit fusion place: warm lighting, soft music, private booths.
Perfect for a not-date that was actually very much a date.
The two arrived early, choosing a booth near the back. Ivan didn’t bother with disguise: long hair loose, piercings glinting, jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. He drew stares even in a hoodie and black ripped baggy jeans. Till found himself glaring at anyone who looked too long.
Ivan leaned over. “You jealous already?”
“No,” he lied.
The other smirked.
Then—
The door swung open, and Mizi walked in.
She was… stunning.
Pink hair in soft curls that brushed her collarbones, a deep forest-green cropped sweater, black pleated skirt, and boots that screamed “I may look cute but I will fight you bitch.”
Her makeup was soft but flawless, highlighting her big green eyes.
Till waved her over.
Mizi marched toward them with the exact expression of a woman about to interrogate two suspects.
She slid into the seat beside Till, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Okay. TALK.”
Her friend tried to act innocent. “About what?”
“You told me to wear something cute.” She jabbed his shoulder. “You asked if I was free. You refused to tell me what we’re doing. This is suspicious behavior, Till. I’ve watched K-dramas. I know the signs.”
Ivan hid a laugh behind his hand.
Mizi pointed at him. “You. Oh wow… you’re not in your disguise today. Okay damn…. You’re hotter up close. ANYWAYS… the point is you know something.”
The raven-head lifted both hands in amusement. “I know many things.”
“Not helping,” Till whispered.
She stared at them both. “If this is a set up, blink twice.”
Till did not blink.
Ivan did.
The woman gasped. “I KNEW IT!”
Her friend slapped his lover’s thigh under the table. Ivan winced.
Before he could recover, the front door opened again. Slow. Graceful. Almost cinematic.
And Sua walked in.
⸻
Mizi’s breath left her body.
Actually left.
Her hand shot out and slapped Till’s thigh so hard he yelped.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Oh my god. Oh my GOD.”
Sua was radiant… effortlessly so.
Medium-length raven hair styled in soft waves, snow-white dress that hugged her waist, diamond-studded earrings catching the light, a crisp black blazer draped over her shoulders. She looked like she was walking into a Vogue interview rather than a casual Saturday meetup.
Every step she took was deliberate, poised.
Confident.
The entire restaurant turned to look.
But her eyes: sharp and beautiful zeroed in on their table.
Specifically on Till.
Then Ivan.
Then—
Her gaze landed on Mizi.
She blinked.
Once.
Then again.
And a slow, devastating smile spread across her face.
Till swore he saw his best friend malfunction.
She grabbed his arm. Hard. “That’s Sua. That’s THE Sua. That’s… Till—I—Is she coming here?! TILL.”
“Act normal,” he hissed.
“I CAN’T ACT NORMAL WHEN A GODDESS IS APPROACHING.”
Ivan muttered under his breath, “Yep. They’re the same Pokémon type.”
Till elbowed him.
⸻
Sua reached the table. “Hello.”
Her voice was smooth, low… almost regal.
Till scrambled up. “H-Hi, Noona.”
Ivan stood as well. “You look radiant as ever, Noona.”
Sua flicked his forehead. “You told me this was casual.”
He rubbed his forehead. “It is casual.”
The woman ignored him completely, her gaze sliding back to Mizi.
“And you,” she said softly, “must be the famous best friend.”
Mizi’s soul briefly left her body.
“I—I—um—hi,” she squeaked, standing so fast she nearly knocked over her water. “I’m Mizi. Your fan. A big fan. Huge fan. Massive. Like. Very large. Fan.”
Till facepalmed.
Sua’s lips twitched. “You’re adorable.”
The pink-headed woman promptly forgot how to breathe.
Ivan smirked beside his sister. Till kicked him under the table.
They all sat. Mizi across from Sua… because Till absolutely forced her into that seat so they’d be face-to-face.
⸻
The first five minutes were chaotic.
Mizi knocked over her fork.
Then apologized to the fork.
Then apologized to Sua for apologizing to a fork.
Sua found it endearing. “You don’t have to be nervous,” she murmured, chin propped on hand, eyes soft but studying her like an art piece. “I’m just a person.”
“A very pretty person,” the other whispered before she could stop herself.
Till inhaled sharply.
Ivan slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle laughter.
And Sua?
She smirked. Slow. Pleased. “You’re very pretty too.”
Mizi’s soul exited her body.
⸻
After food arrived, things… settled.
Mizi eased up surprisingly quickly when she realized Sua wasn’t just beautiful… she was funny, sharp, and subtly chaotic, especially when teasing Ivan.
“So,” the raven-headed woman started at one point, sipping her wine, “you like fashion, like designing?”
Mizi nodded. “I—I do alterations and small tailoring jobs. Till taught me some things, and I’m learning more on my own.”
Sua’s brows lifted. “Impressive.”
“It’s nothing special—”
“It is,” she interrupted smoothly. “Don’t downplay your skill.”
Mizi blushed. Hard.
Till kicked Ivan. “I think this is going well.”
His boyfriend smirked. “No. This is going perfectly.”
But things escalated when the topic shifted to fashion icons.
Mizi gestured animatedly. “Till thinks he’s not iconic but he literally is. But YOU… Sua, your runway walk in 2021? I swear it cured my depression—”
Said woman leaned in, eyes sparkling. “You watched that show?”
“I watched it like a hundred times.”
Ivan gaped. “You watched Noona walk that many times?”
Mizi snapped back, flustered. “Y-Yes! I mean—NO—not… not like in a weird way…”
Sua rested her chin on her palm again, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “I’m flattered.”
Till whispered to Ivan, “They’re flirting, right?”
“Oh, absolutely.” The other nodded.
⸻
The turning point came halfway through dessert.
Sua reached forward and gently brushed a piece of lint off Mizi’s sweater: so subtly, so casually, it looked natural.
The woman froze.
Her fingers lingered. “Soft fabric.”
Mizi’s voice cracked. “Y-you can touch me… I-it whenever you want.”
Till choked on his tea. Ivan wheezed into his hand.
“Smooth,” he whispered.
Sua giggled.
Mizi buried her face in her hands.
⸻
The night ended with all four stepping out into the cool air.
Mizi was glowing pink. Sua was smiling like she had just been handed her favorite toy.
“Let’s do this again,” she said, directly to her.
Mizi blinked. “T-Together?”
Sua stepped closer. “Just us.”
The other squeaked. “YES.”
Sua laughed… and the sound sent Mizi into orbit.
She turned to the couple. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Ivan bowed dramatically. “Anytime, Noona.”
The raven-headed woman rolled her eyes…and then kissed Till’s cheek before turning to kiss Mizi’s cheek.
Said woman’s knees nearly buckled.
“We’ll talk soon,” she murmured to her, sliding a card into her hand.
And with a wink, she slipped into her car and drove off.
⸻
The second she disappeared…
Mizi grabbed Till and SCREAMED.
“BESTIEEEEEEEE—SHE’S—SHE’S—OH MY GOD—SHE’S SO PRETTY—AND SHE KISSED ME AND GAVE ME HER NUMBER—AND—TILL—SHE WANTS TO SEE ME ALONE—ALONE—TILL—”
The silver-head held her shoulders. “Breathe! Breathe, Miz!”
Ivan leaned toward Till. “So… success?”
Till grinned. “Success.”
⸻
Later that night, in Ivan’s car, he kissed his lover’s hand as he drove.
“Operation Matchmaking,” Till started proudly.
“Was a complete win,” Ivan finished, eyes warm.
The smaller man rested his head on his shoulder at a stoplight. “Think they’ll last?”
Ivan kissed his forehead. “They’re a perfect stitch.”
Till smiled.
He knew exactly what he meant.
Two lives… woven together.
Just like theirs.
And now…
Mizi and Sua’s thread had officially begun.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading. I know you all wanted some MiziSua so I had to lock in. However, this is the last MiziSua chapter since well, the story is coming to an end.
Have a wonderful day or night and be safe <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 31: The Place We Call Ours
Summary:
The silver-head rested his chin on his palm while watching his lover fuss with his own food. “You’re fidgety,” he said softly.
Ivan froze. “…No, I’m not.”
Till raised a brow. “You only play with your things like that when you’re nervous.”
Dammit.
The man put the fork down a little too quickly.
Notes:
Side Note: the ones who wanna join my discord server… I think imma wait a bit before adding anyone… but hopefully in the near future I do create a server for us. Right now… it won’t make sense as I would be too busy to message :(
Also if you guys didn't know, there is a show that is inspired by the manga in which this story is based on. It is a Japanese BL Drama by the same name as the manga “Punks Triangle” and you can watch it on GagaOOLala or for free on kisskh.do (the casting for this show is quite epic so I am sure you will enjoy it if you enjoyed the storyline for mines)
Let me know if you checked it out ;)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
The first breath of winter drifted through the open windows of Ivan’s penthouse, cool and soft like Christmas. Seoul’s skyline glimmered beneath hazy lights, the city humming faintly below… far enough to feel distant, close enough to feel alive. He moved through the living room with a kind of nervous precision he didn’t show often, setting the last of the candles along the console table, straightening their positions twice before stepping back.
The place was clean… too clean, maybe. He had spent the entire morning rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging, wiping surfaces that already shone. The dining table was set with two plates, covered pasta he made from scratch (after two failed attempts), a small vase of pale roses at the center. A soft playlist filled the space: slow instrumentals and gentle R&B.
Everything looked calm.
Ivan, on the other hand, felt like he would combust.
He checked his phone for the seventh time in two minutes.
My Love❤️: On my way <3
He smiled at the screen, an involuntary, boyish one that softened his whole expression and quickly shoved his phone into his pocket before he could overthink again.
Tonight was important.
He wasn’t planning a proposal… nothing that monumental.
But asking Till to move in with him felt like stepping into something permanent… something real.
He wanted them to share a space.
To share mornings. Nights.
To share the silence, the laughter, the mundane.
To stop leaving each other at doors.
He wanted a home that held both of their shoes by the entrance.
Ivan ran a hand through his long, inky hair, exhaling shakily. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. Till had been part of every corner of his thoughts for almost a year now… loving him came as naturally as breathing. Yet the possibility of messing up, of seeming too rushed, lingered in his chest.
Then the doorbell rang.
He perked up, inhaled a deep steadying breath, and went to open the door.
His beautiful boyfriend stood there, flushed from the chill outside, hair wind-tousled, wearing a soft wool sweater and baggy jeans. He looked unfairly beautiful in the hallway light. His eyes found his immediately, brightening at the sight of him.
“Hey,” Till said: soft, warm, smiling like the whole world had just rearranged into something better.
Ivan couldn’t help it. He leaned down and kissed him instantly.
His lover let out a soft, surprised sound that melted into a happy hum as he kissed him back, hands finding the front of his shirt and gripping lightly. Their lips brushed, pressed, lingered, until Till pulled back with a breathless smile.
“Well,” he murmured, cheeks reddened, “someone missed me.”
“You took too long,” the raven-head answered, voice low with affection. “And I always miss you.”
Till bit his lip: shy and glowing… and stepped inside. He paused as the scent of dinner and candlelight washed over him, his eyes widening at the setting Ivan prepared.
“Babe… this is…” He took a slow look around. “Wow.”
A warm blush crept across Ivan’s cheeks at how openly stunned his boyfriend looked. “It’s nothing special,” he muttered.
Till walked over to him again, took his face in his hands, and kissed him: slowly, sweetly, as though he appreciated every single detail illuminated by the soft candlelight.
“It’s very special,” he whispered against his lips. “Because you did it.”
Ivan’s heart tightened at that, and he nudged his forehead with his own before taking his hand. “Let’s eat.”
The meal was cozy… too cozy, almost. Till kept glancing at him with soft, curious smiles. Ivan kept losing track of his own fork. They talked about school projects, about the smaller man’s drawings, about how Ivan’s manager had nearly combusted when he said he needed three days off to “focus.” Till teased him about being a workaholic. Ivan teased him about getting distracted in class whenever he stared at his disguise. They laughed until their stomachs hurt.
But beneath it all, beneath the smiles, there was a quiet, steady thrum of anticipation.
The silver-head rested his chin on his palm while watching his lover fuss with his own food. “You’re fidgety,” he said softly.
Ivan froze. “…No, I’m not.”
Till raised a brow. “You only play with your things like that when you’re nervous.”
Dammit.
The man put the fork down a little too quickly.
His boyfriend reached across the table, brushing the back of his hand with his fingertips… a barely-there touch, but grounding in a way that made Ivan’s heart swell.
“Whatever it is,” Till said quietly, “you know can tell me.”
And just like that, the raven-head felt everything inside him warm and soften. He exhaled shakily, running his thumb gently along his knuckles.
“Let’s… go to the living room,” he whispered. “It’ll be easier there.”
Till blinked and nodded, still holding his hand as they moved to the couch. Ivan sat first, and the other settled beside him… close enough that their thighs touched. The proximity made him feel less nervous.
The smaller man tilted his head, gently searching onyx eyes. “You look like you’re about to confess some crimes.”
Ivan snorted, despite himself. “It’s not that.”
Till’s lips curved. “Then what is it?”
He swallowed, his heartbeat loud and full before he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small silver key on a plain chain.
Till’s eyes widened slightly… but he stayed still, waiting.
Ivan took a breath.
Another.
And then—
“I want you to move in with me,” he confessed softly, voice tremoring despite his efforts to keep it steady. “Not because it’s convenient. Not because it’s expected. But because I… I want to wake up with you. I want to come home to you. I want you in my everyday life. I want you in every part of it.”
Till stared at him, lips parted, breath caught.
The man continued, heart on his sleeve.
“I want to share a home with you, Till. I want to build one with you.”
He gently held out the key.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
The silence that followed felt suspended, delicate… charged with something warm and overwhelming.
Teal eyes shimmered.
And then… without warning, he threw his arms around his lover, practically tackling him back into the cushions.
Ivan let out a surprised laugh as Till buried his face against his neck, hugging him with so much emotion it made his eyes sting.
“Of course I want to,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Ivan… I want that. I want you. Every part of you. Every day. I want all of it.”
Warmth burst in the raven-head’s chest so fast he couldn’t speak for a moment. He wrapped his arms tightly around him, pressing a kiss to his temple, breathing him in.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve been ready for a while.”
Till pulled back only slightly… just enough to cup Ivan’s jaw and kiss him deeply. The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. It was slow and full, tender and hungry at once: soft lips brushing, lingering, deepening. He shifted closer, nearly into his lap, his fingers sliding into his hair.
Ivan groaned softly at the sensation, hands finding Till’s waist as their lips moved together. The kiss grew warmer: still romantic, still gentle, but filled with need. The smaller man parted his lips, deepening it naturally, letting out a soft sigh when large hands traced along his hip.
“Ivan…” he whispered breathlessly against his mouth, “you’re always so good to me.”
Said man smiled against his lips, brushing a thumb along his cheek. “You deserve it.”
Till’s cheeks flushed pink as he leaned in again, kissing him slower: pressing closer until he was straddling Ivan’s thighs, arms draped around his shoulders. The other’s hands slid along his back and ass in long, warm strokes, grounding him.
Their kisses grew sweeter, more drawn out. The smaller man nuzzled into his lover’s neck between kisses, sighing as Ivan rubbed circles on his hips. The room felt warm. Safe. Like a world that belonged to them alone.
Eventually Till rested his forehead against Ivan’s, breath unsteady but happy.
“I’m really moving in with you,” he whispered, voice soft with wonder.
“Yeah,” the other murmured, drawing him impossibly closer. “You are.”
Till’s fingers laced with his.
“I can’t wait.”
The raven-head kissed him again: soft, sweet, promising… and held him there as the evening stretched warm and slow around them, wrapped in candlelight and the quiet certainty that this… this was home.
Their home.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
Thank you for reading guys. One more chapter and then it’s over. I might actually cry because this is the most fun I have had writing a story and sharing it :(
See you in the final chapter update tomorrow but until then have a wonderful day or night <3
With Love,
mixciii~
Chapter 32: The Final Stitch
Summary:
Till flushed all the way to his ears. “We’re at work—”
“No one minds.” The man kissed the tip of his nose. “You’re irresistible.”
Till swatted his chest with a flustered whine. “Focus, Ivan.”
“I am,” said man murmured, leaning in. “Entirely on you.”
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
.⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓ .⋆♱⃓
Five years later, the penthouse looked nothing like the minimal space Ivan once lived in… at least, not entirely. The bones were the same: tall glass windows framing the Seoul skyline, dark wooden floors, warm amber lighting tracing along the ceiling. But the rest… the rest was Till.
Soft fabrics draped over furniture in muted jewel tones. Sketches framed on the walls, some early ones with shaky lines and bizarre proportions that he refused to let his lover throw away. Bookshelves filled with fashion biographies, pattern-making manuals, and odd knick-knacks Till swore had sentimental meaning. A small, thriving garden of plants on the balcony… despite Ivan insisting he had killed every plant he had ever touched before Till came into his life.
And the bedroom… the bedroom was theirs. Their colors, their art, their scent, their shared life woven into every inch. The large bed covered in soft sheets, with a sketchbook on Till’s side and a pair of reading glasses on Ivan’s. More blankets than any two humans reasonably needed. Two bathrobes hanging side by side. Their wedding rings often placed together on the nightstand when they slept.
The smaller man padded out of the bedroom barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, wearing one of his husband’s shirts that hung on him like a dress.
Ivan looked up from the kitchen counter, where he was slicing strawberries. His long hair… now grown even longer, streaks of crimson now darker… was tied into a lazy half-bun.
His smile softened instantly. “Morning, love.”
“It’s 12 p.m.,” Till mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“Then good afternoon, sweetheart.” The man leaned over the counter to press a kiss to his lips. “You were up until five working on the final pieces. Let your husband spoil you.”
Till flushed, tugging at the oversized shirt. “It’s our launch show tonight. I needed to finish the last adjustments.”
“You say that every time.” Ivan rolled his eyes lovingly, lifting a strawberry to his lover’s lips. “Eat.”
Said man took the berry with a flush, chewing as he walked over to lean against his chest, humming softly. “You’re too good to me.”
The raven-head kissed his temple. “That’s what you say to me every single day even before we got married.”
Till’s face burned. “Y-Yah—! That was different.”
Ivan smirked, bending to whisper into his ear. “Was it?”
The other shoved his shoulder weakly, moving back as the model laughed. It was… so natural. So easy. The comfortable intimacy of two people who had been in love for so long that it had become the air they breathed.
Six years since the competition.
Five and a half since they got together officially.
Four since they officially moved in together.
Three since Till launched his brand: “TILL THE END (TTD)”
Two since Ivan publicly announced he also designed and modeled for the brand.
One since they got married in a beautiful ceremony in Jeju, surrounded by every person who mattered.
Life was good.
Warm.
Full.
________
Backstage buzzed with energy.
Assistants rushed around. Models were being fitted, styled, touched-up. The runway gleamed under bright lights, shimmering with anticipation.
Till stood in the fitting area, his hair pinned half up, a tape measure draped over his shoulders. His eyes were sharp, focused, but every time he glanced at his husband… to check the fit, to smooth a sleeve, to adjust a pin… his cheeks reddened before he forced himself back into professional mode.
Ivan, in the meantime, looked at him like he was watching the love of his life sculpt the world with his bare hands.
The smaller man tugged gently at the collar of the custom piece: black silk and structured leather, stitched with red thread, elegant but bold, the perfect combination of Till’s romantic aesthetic and Ivan’s sharp edge.
“You’re staring again,” the silver-head muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I’m admiring,” his husband corrected, tugging him by the waist, pulling him closer. “My designer. My husband.”
Till flushed all the way to his ears. “We’re at work—”
“No one minds.” The man kissed the tip of his nose. “You’re irresistible.”
Till swatted his chest with a flustered whine. “Focus, Ivan.”
“I am,” said man murmured, leaning in. “Entirely on you.”
The smaller man nearly melted. But he stepped back, grabbed the last few clips, and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
When the final adjustments were done, he took a step back.
Perfect.
Ivan looked breathtaking as per usual.
“Okay,” he whispered, swallowing thickly. “I… think you’re ready.”
The raven-head lifted his hand and brushed his cheek with his thumb. “And you?”
Till blinked. “Me what?”
“Are you ready?” His lover tilted his head. “You get more nervous than I do before every show.”
The silver-head pouted. “I do not.”
Ivan raised a brow. “You’re shaking.”
Till looked down at his fingers. “…Shut up.”
The model cupped his face, warm and gently teasing. “I love you.”
Till’s breath caught. Every time. Even after years, the effect hadn’t dulled.
He reached up, fingers curling into the other’s collar. “I love you too.”
And in the chaotic swirl of models, assistants, and lights, they kissed. Slow. Deep. Soft. A promise before the storm of cameras and crowds.
A stagehand cleared his throat awkwardly. “I.V… ten minutes!”
Said man smirked against his husband’s lips before pulling away, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “See you after I conquer your runway.”
Till shook his head, smiling helplessly. “Go.”
Ivan kissed him once more… quick this time, before stepping out.
The smaller man watched him walk away, chest warm, nerves buzzing with pride.
His husband.
His muse.
His co-designer.
His everything.
________
The front row glowed with familiar faces.
Irene was dressed in a jade green silk dress, diamonds sparkling at her neck, looking every bit like the elegant powerhouse she was.
Ju-Yeon sat calmly beside her, hands folded, posture relaxed, eyes soft with pride.
Mizi had her arm slung around Sua, who sat in a stunning violet dress that matched her eyes. The two whispered something to each other, then stifled giggles like teenagers.
Till slipped into the empty seat between Sua and Irene.
“Darling, you look exhausted,” the woman said immediately, clasping his hand in hers. “Are you sleeping enough?”
“I am Eomma, no worries,” he responded, leaning his head on her shoulder slightly.
She hummed and pressed a kiss on his temple.
Till flushed as Sua smirked and Mizi nudged him teasingly. “Celebrity husband fever,” she whispered. “Still can’t believe you bagged I.V.”
The man groaned quietly. “Not you too.”
“You’re gonna be jealous again when his fans stare at him.” she teased, eyes glinting. “You should be. Have you seen him in that outfit?”
Till’s face burned. “He’s my husband… of course I’ve seen him!”
“Not like this,” Sua hummed.
Mizi giggled, intertwining her fingers with hers.
Till smiled softly at the two of them. Seeing them so happy made him warm inside. After all, they’d started dating shortly after he and Ivan set them up. The double wedding had almost happened… but Sua insisted they weren’t that chaotic and they got married almost a year later.
Luka strutted down the runway first, wearing a shimmering top with structured shoulders and sleek pants. Then Hyunwoo followed, brooding and sharp in a dramatic cape-piece. Hyuna came next, fierce and radiant in a bright red ensemble, the crowd erupting in cheers.
Till’s designs.
His babies.
Worn by some of the most beautiful people he knew.
And then—
The lights dimmed.
The music shifted.
And Ivan… I.V stepped out.
The audience gasped. Cameras flashed violently. He walked with the same impossible confidence he always had: smooth, sensual, controlled. The outfit hugged him perfectly, reflecting every intention Till put into the design.
The man’s heart pounded, pride swelling so strong it almost hurt.
I.V reached the end of the runway… and for a brief moment, he looked directly at him.
Their eyes met.
Six years of love, heartbreak, healing, and growth threaded between their gaze.
And he smiled.
Small. Soft. Just for him.
_______
After the finale, after the applause, after the final bow…
Ivan found Till backstage, grabbing him by the waist and spinning him in the air before pulling him into a deep, laughing kiss.
“You did it,” he whispered against his mouth. “These pieces are incredible as per usual.”
His lover pressed his forehead against his. “No. We did it.”
The raven-head kissed him again. Longer. Fuller. Warm.
Hyuna popped her head in with Luka and Hyunwoo. “Stop making out, the press is looking for you two!”
Till yelped and shoved Ivan back, mortified. The others grinned.
Luka smirked and walked closer, hooking his arm around the silver-head’s and glaring at his model friend.
“You’re making me and your fans jealous, Tillie,” he teased to which the other snorted but patted his blonde hair.
“Let them look,” the raven-head commented, pulling his lover in by the waist. “Let the world see how much I love my husband.”
The smaller man hid his face in his chest as everyone around them laughed.
“Sappy as always,” Hyunwoo responded, amused, grabbing his blonde boyfriend’s hand to bring him back to his side.
And just like that…
in the warmth of backstage lights, surrounded by friends, family, and the love they’d built…
their story found its final stitch.
A life sewn together.
A future bright and sure.
A love that survived everything and only grew deeper… not fragile, not temporary,
but secured with the same technique Till used for his most important garments:
A double stitch: meant to last, meant to hold, meant to endure.
And so their story, like every masterpiece, ended not with unraveling… but with permanence.
With strength.
With love threaded through every moment still to come.
The double stitch that bound them, now and always.
✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮
Notes:
I wanna take this time to thank you all immensely from the bottom of my heart for the amazing love and support this fic has received. It is truly a blessing to get all this attention and truly… truly an honor.
It has been one of the best journeys I’ve ever had and I hope to make more memories with you all. This is not the end of my IvanTill adventures in terms of writing fics… There will be more in the future, hopefully.
I will respond to your comments soon, but once again, thank you for enjoying this story.
I wanna give credits one more time to the manga I have inspired this fic on: “Punks Triangle” by YUHO OKITA.
Have a wonderful day or night and see you in the next fic of mine <3
(Btw if you have any story ideas for future IvanTill fics then please share them in the comments)
With Love,
mixciii~
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