Chapter Text
For a moment, as Till fiddles with his cheap lighter, he considers heading inside. In the next second he dismisses the idea; he’s already late by a handful of minutes, what’s a few more?
The sharp bite of late fall has already settled across the campus, harsh enough that Till’s breath materializes in the air when the temperature dips even further at night. For now, it’s still early enough that the sky is just beginning to tip from navy to the pale hazy blue of dawn, and the thick material of his jacket is keeping out most of the morning chill. His hands are protected by a pair of knitted gloves, courtesy of his best friend, whose own passions for art revolve around the things she can create with two knitting needles and a pattern bought off Etsy.
A click of his tongue betrays his irritation as he gives his lighter a vigorous shake. This time, when he flicks his thumb over the sparkwheel, it catches. The flickering flame burns the end of the cigarette dangling from his lips. He smells the mentholated smoke before it curls in his lungs, the bitter edge of tobacco on the heels of its familiar icy bite.
It’s a cheap pack that leaves a bullshit chemical tang on the back of his tongue. If Till were less attached to the minty sting, he wouldn’t bother wasting his money on it.
Spidery cracks cut right through the time on Till’s phone screen and he has to tilt it to make out the numbers.
Fifteen minutes later, Till finally drops the cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with the toe of his boot. Glass doors slide open when he approaches. It’s warmer inside the building, systems always working to keep the space comfortable no matter the season. The fourth floor greets him with its familiar gray carpet, white walls, and framed inspirational posters with quotes from long-dead composers.
Till opens the third door on the left.
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
A metronome ticks away steadily as pale fingers work across the neck of a sickeningly expensive violin, bow gliding smoothly along each string.
The rehearsal room is cast in the pale blue of dawn. It mirrors the hall with its monochromatic palette. A lone figure stands in the center of the room. His hair is down the way it always is when they rehearse this early, sharp bangs brushing against dark eyebrows.
For a moment, a subtle twitch of an eyebrow is the only sign that Till’s presence has been noted. Then dark eyes cut to him and a low voice says, “Late as always.”
Till rolls his eyes, crossing the room to drop his violin case onto the singular chair. “Stop whining, jesus. If I’m always late, you know what to expect.” He tugs his gloves off to tuck them in his back pocket. Little black stars are painted onto his nails, a galaxy at his fingertips. His fingers are only a little pink from the chill that managed to seep through the fabric, though he’s sure that they’re faring better than his face; his cheeks and nose always flush red in the cold.
A subtle ache echoes from his knuckles as he unclasps his case. The thin skin there is mottled with the familiar sight of bruises. He quickly goes through the motions of tightening the hairs on his bow and applying a few strokes of rosin.
“Predictability isn’t a virtue when it comes to poor time management. You know these rooms are only free for a half hour in the mornings.”
Till just barely resists the urge to mock Ivan’s words. He settles for pulling a face and fits his violin under his chin, running through scales. He shoots Ivan a pointed look with raised eyebrows. Happy?
Ivan lowers his violin. Something close to irritation tightens the corners of his eyes. “Would it kill you to take this seriously? We have a piece to perfect, not some childish scale competition.” Before Till can reply, Ivan flips through his sheet music then raises his violin and resumes his perfect posture. “We’ll work on the third movement. And please, try not to butcher Sibelius with those barbaric hands of yours.”
“Those barbaric hands of yours.” Till lets himself repeat this time, voice gone high and whiny in a shitty impression of Ivan’s voice — nevermind that the other man’s pitch is lower than his own. Ivan shoots him a look, bow gliding across the strings for a moment as though baiting him into playing along.
And despite the sharp prickle of irritation, Till follows. There are many things that Till can ignore, that he can even take pleasure in ignoring. The call of a lonely violin just isn’t one of them. Even a violin that he hates as much as Ivan’s.
Ivan’s bow coaxes out a familiar melody. Till’s knuckles twinge as his fingers move across the fingerboard. Part of it is the bruised skin tugging and pulling. Most of it is the urge to crash his fist into that goddamn violin and the man playing it.
If Till knows nothing else, he knows that he fucking despises the way that Ivan plays. Precision personified, maddeningly meticulous and sterile. It’s an empty performance, each note slicing through the air as frigid and lifeless as Ivan’s vacant stare. The music doesn’t ring with longing; it expires, falling flat upon Till’s ears.
Countless times over the years, Till has heard people compare Ivan to a marble statue. He’s so beautiful, they gush, all wide-eyed and awed, he’s so elegant, how is he even real? And every time Till wants to ask if they’re fucking delusional, because there is nothing beautiful about Ivan. Till has seen marble statues; breathtaking ones, ancient ones, stripped of color over the years and made all the more beautiful for their resilience.
Ivan is nothing like them. Ivan is a lifeless mass-produced mannequin, a mere shell of a person. His mechanical smiles make Till’s skin crawl. Everyone else is fooled by the facade. Till sees the emptiness underneath.
The acrid taste of Ivan’s lifeless performance almost chokes him. Ivan plays like he’s nothing more than a corpse, his final few muscle spasms ringing out dull. Till wants to jab his finger to the sheet music, to grab a fistful of Ivan’s hair and shove his face into the pages, to make him sound out every goddamn syllable in the word espressivo.
The music isn’t just notes on a page for Till. Till feels the music. It’s an instinctual outburst, a visceral declaration of this is the way it should be played, not the way it is. The anger, the agony, the despair — it resonates within him down to his very bones. And when their performances sound as good as they do together, maybe the difference shouldn’t matter. But it does. It makes Till feel sick, makes him want to wrap his hands around the pale length of Ivan’s throat and see something like fear bloom in his dark gaze, to touch the rabbit-race of his heart through the thin skin of his neck, to make him fucking feel something.
Till spends more time than he would ever admit imagining the sound of his fist connecting with jaw, the crunch of bone and flesh, the shock of pain that would surely course through Ivan’s body. But would he flinch? Would he react at all? Would he bleed? Would he cry?
Would any tears shed even be real?
Eventually, Ivan lowers his bow. A faint tremor in his hand gives away his exertion. Till has no doubt that Ivan has been playing since the moment he woke up; he always does. Early to rise, early to class, late to bed, fitting his violin under his chin whenever he gets a free second to do so.
Till can’t stay in the dorms because his scholarship doesn’t cover the cost. Ivan doesn’t stay in the dorms because his daddy’s money pays for an apartment, and the chauffeur that drives Ivan to and from the conservatoire every day, as well as just about everything else in his life. Of course, Till has never seen the apartment, but he has no doubt that Ivan spends a disproportionate amount of time in some opulent dedicated music room designed specifically to hone his craft.
Ivan lives and breathes his multi-million dollar violin. And still, Till outplays him every time.
Till knows that his grin is smug. “You’re welcome, Sibelius.” He sing-songs, sliding his bow across the strings to hold the same tune as his voice.
Tension tightens along Ivan’s shoulders for a moment before smoothing out. “Don’t get cocky. Your over reliance on luck rather than discipline will be your downfall one day.” Ivan says as he sets his violin down, taking a moment to carefully wipe over the strings and wood with a soft cloth.
“Luck, he calls it.” Till scoffs. He drops into the empty piano stool, propping his elbow on the closed fallboard and resting his chin in his hand. “Don’t be jealous, Ivan, it’s not my fault your ‘discipline’ leaves you in the dust.”
There it is. For a second Ivan’s gaze sharpens, his composure cracking. His posture straightens, the cloth still in his hand as he meticulously wraps it around the violin’s neck. “Jealous? You mistake my disdain for envy.” He raises his chin, quite literally looking down his nose at Till. “And as for being left in the dust, the only thing I’m behind in is finding ways to put up with your insufferable arrogance and inadequacy.”
Ivan’s face is all harsh angles illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the rehearsal room windows. He’s so ugly. It makes Till’s stomach turn. Nevermind that his skin is smooth and unblemished, that his eyelashes are long enough to sweep against his cheekbones, that his mouth is soft and pink with a pronounced cupid’s bow. Altogether, he’s hideous. The most interesting thing about him is the way Till’s skin crawls when he’s around.
Pale hands work at loosening his bow then storing it neatly, clicking the little notch to hold it in place. He moves mechanically through the motions of packing away his violin; shoulder rest off, violin tucked away into its velvet casket. Perhaps that’s why his music sounds the way it does; Ivan drags it from its grave each time he plays, and the wretched thing brings the afterlife with it.
His case closes with a solid click.
“We’ll meet again for rehearsal tomorrow.” Ivan’s voice makes it clear that he expects to be obeyed. “Try arriving on time. It might give the illusion of professionalism, if not the actual substance.”
In defiance, Till sinks into an even less professional slouch. “Uppity bitch.” He doesn’t bother lowering his voice.
Ivan smiles. Till feels fucking sick. That grin is as soulless as his playing — nothing more than a calculated, well-practiced motion. Till has no doubt that for every hour Ivan has spent gliding his bow across strings and pressing his fingers to the fingerboard, he’s spent just as long working the muscles in his cheeks to form the perfect smile.
With a petulant flick of his fingers, Till plucks at the strings of his violin in his lap. Ivan leaves without another word. Till doesn’t bother trying to stop him.
Two days later, Till considers ditching rehearsal entirely.
The only class they have together for the day is Music Theory. Till laughs when he pictures Ivan’s pissy face at Till strolling in late. Especially because Ivan doesn’t show those expressions around other people. The thought of Ivan having to hide his seething behind a smile amuses Till almost as much as it disgusts him.
Instead, Till rides his broken down little bike through the streets before the sun rises, crashing his way through puddles. The brakes haven’t worked properly for months. Till wouldn’t ride any slower even if they did. It rained overnight. Heavy clouds still press down on the city, threatening to open in a downpour again at any moment. Till’s headphones are cheap, an old wired pair connected to the phone in his pocket. They wouldn’t hold up against the rain.
Because the world loves Till, his headphones make it perfectly unscathed. He doesn’t bother locking his bike up the way all of the others are. It’s little more than a scrap of metal held together atop two wheels that deflate a lot faster than they should. And because the world loves Till, no one ever bothers to touch the piece of junk.
Five minutes before the time Ivan books their rehearsals, he hovers by the third door on the left in the hallway. When it opens, laughter falters to a stop at the sight of him. He raises his eyebrows. The quartet file out, waiting until Till steps into the room to start murmuring to themselves. Till rolls his eyes and kicks the door closed behind himself.
Where Ivan is whispered about with reverence, the murmurs about Till are steeped in misery. Why him, they lament, why him?
Really, they could mean anything by it. Why does Till, with his bruised and bloodied knuckles, coax such poetry from a violin? Why is Till, who just barely skirts over the attendance rate, the top of all of his classes? Why is Till, with a smile as mean as his sneer, permitted among the elite?
The answer is obvious, really; he’s just plain better than all of them.
Mizi scolds him sometimes, when he says that. “Don’t be mean, Till, they’re people just like us,” she says, her pretty face distorted on his cracked phone screen. Till hates to disappoint her, so he apologizes, and she forgives him, but that doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind.
Every student, born into the lap of luxury and groomed by the finest tutors, falls short in Till’s reckoning.
And towering above them all in their mediocrity is Ivan. Second-born son, from a family whose wealth Till can’t even conceive, whose mechanical smiles graced glossy pages years before Till even touched his very first violin. Ivan, with technical skills that are almost unparalleled, is the epitome of inadequacy. Technical skill can be taught; emotion can’t.
Today’s gloves are black with red stars. They’re a newer pair and Till’s fingers aren’t flushed even a little from the cold. Two minutes later, Ivan’s entrance is marked by the soft click of the door closing behind him. Ivan halts in his tracks when he sees Till sitting at the piano again.
“Ivan? The soloist? Late?” Till runs his fingers along the keys, then places both of his elbows on them to rest his chin in his hands, the very picture of innocence. “Tsk tsk!”
Ivan’s mouth tightens around the corners at the discordant cry of the piano — or maybe at the title, which drips like poison from Till’s lips. “How amusing.” His voice is as flat as his notes always are. “I hope you haven’t expended all of your energy on this little charade. We have work to do.”
Till rolls his eyes and reaches for his violin and bow. Ivan approaches the piano, shrugging off his coat to reveal the turtleneck underneath. It clings from his broad shoulders down to his slim waist. Till’s ring finger slides along the hairs of his bow. He has no doubt that the shirt costs enough that Till’s stomach would turn if he saw the price tag.
Ivan places his case down and undoes the latches. The bow is tightened and rosin is applied to the hairs, the violin removed with careful hands.
Morning, you undead fuck, Till thinks to himself when he sees the thing and snorts a laugh. Ivan spares him a brief glance.
Till doesn’t wait for Ivan before tucking his violin under his chin. “I’ll count in.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow. “Last I checked, the soloist sets the tempo.”
Till wants to tear the strings from Ivan’s violin and choke him with them. “Last I checked, I don’t give a fuck.”
“You can’t count for shit. We’ll start from the Adagio.”
Till mocks, “Language, Ivan!” and snickers at the way Ivan’s eye seems to twitch. “I’m counting in.” Before Ivan can argue or reach for the metronome, Till begins to play with a smirk.
As they reach the second movement, Ivan’s eyes flick away from the sheet music long enough to glance at Till. For a moment, he seems almost surprised to find Till already looking at him. Ivan immediately looks back to his sheets. Till watches Ivan’s wrist move his fingers along the strings, holding notes with crystal clear vibrato. Ivan’s ears are going red. Till wonders if Ivan’s embarrassed to have thrown such a tantrum over leading the count.
For just an instant, Till hears something else in Ivan’s music. There and then gone, a handful of notes almost seemed to pulse with some semblance of life. The spark dies as quickly as it appeared. The rest of the second and third movements are just as dull as the first had been.
Their final notes fade into the silence of the room. Till is staring at Ivan again. After a moment, Ivan breaks the stillness. “We can do better. The Adagio again.”
Till’s hands twitch. His jaw tightens. For just a fleeting moment, Ivan’s music had felt alive. Of course Ivan wants to do better. To fix it. Till thinks about grabbing that fucking violin by its neck and shattering it. Put that undead monstrosity to its grave properly this time.
This time, Ivan plays the movement perfectly. There isn’t a single beat of hesitation. Each note is flawless, empty and dull, just like Ivan himself.
Their director praises Ivan for how well he’s picked up the piece. She doesn’t tell Ivan that his music makes her ears hurt or her stomach roll. Ivan looks pleased and Till wants to rip that self-satisfied look off his face.
Till hates their director. Till hates Ivan’s violin. Till hates Ivan.
Till hates how often hatred leads to obsession, and obsession leads to Till on very specific hookup apps, bringing random boys with pretty faces home, imagining turning a different pretty face red when they beg him for just one more. Just one more slap, one more punch, one more cruel twist of skin to leave them with another physical reminder of their night together.
Sometimes they text him again afterwards. Pictures of the marks he left on them, pictures of their fingers inside themselves, thinking of you, wish you were here, when can we do that again?
He blocks all of them. He even deletes the app — until the next time Ivan pisses him off.
“It sounds like you have a crush.” Mizi says. Till gives his phone the most incredulous look he can muster. The small image of him in the corner of the screen looks appropriately baffled.
Sua, pressed to Mizi’s side with her head tilted on her girlfriend’s shoulder, giggles. She covers her mouth with a hand whenever she laughs. “Don’t tease him.”
“I’m not!” Mizi says it so earnestly that Till has to believe her. That makes it worse.
Till very firmly says, “I do not have a crush.” He’s laying all but upside down off the side of his bed with his feet kicked up on his windowsill. There’s a draught, but the thick socks Mizi had knitted for him last year keep his feet warm.
“Oh, but he’s really pretty!” Mizi gives a dreamy sigh. Sua doesn’t even have time to blink before Mizi rushes to add, “Not as pretty as you, my love.”
“Gross. The thing about Ivan, not the other thing. Actually, both. Yuck.” Till slides a little further off his bed.
Mizi’s the one who giggles at him this time. “You’ll fall in love one day, Till!”
“Gross.” Till repeats, because they all know about the frankly embarrassing crush he’d held on Mizi all throughout their years navigating the awkward discomfort of adolescence. Mizi had been the first person to look past Till’s loud voice and angry, childish tantrums to actually befriend him. He’d fallen for her hard and fast, in the way that children were wont to do. The very first time he’d played a violin was because Mizi’s cheeks had been pink when she said that she thought orchestras were pretty.
Six months later, Till had watched Mizi blush over one of the girls at the school talent competition. Sua’s eyes had sparkled at Mizi’s praise in a way they hadn’t even when the entire auditorium applauded her for her piano performance.
Till had started playing because of Mizi, but he’d kept playing because it felt right. Mizi would call it fate if he said it out loud. Till doesn’t believe in fate, but he believes that he was born to play.
“Maybe you’re star-crossed lovers,” Mizi sighs, both hands to her heart. “Both violinists, only one can be a soloist. Is true love enough to keep them together?”
Till asks, “Does this end with both of us dying?” He doesn’t point out that Ivan was already chosen for soloist, because remembering that always makes him want to feel something shatter under his fists.
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s sadder if only one of you dies.”
“I hope it’s Ivan.”
“Till!"
“Sorry, Mizi.” Apologizing to her is second-nature. Sua is smiling. Till’s smiling too. Sua mentions a customer she had to serve at the boutique her parents own, and Till pushes thoughts of tall boys with dark hair and darker eyes out of his mind.
The seasons turn. Winter sets in with an icy chill and a wave of snow. Till’s jacket gets swapped for something thicker to ward off the creeping cold. His shoes are replaced with ones that have better grip in the soles to keep him from meeting his untimely death at the hands of an ice-slick sidewalk, and a knitted beanie gets pulled down over his hair to cover the sensitive tips of his ears. Mizi sends him a knitted scarf as well. She says that its bright teal brings out his eyes. Till thinks that it clashes with just about everything he owns. Still, he sends her a picture of the full outfit and gets a flurry of excited emojis in response.
Because the world hates Till, that’s the day that his bike gets stolen. Till stares at the bike rack in disbelief. His cigarette slips from between his lips and he curses, quickly dropping to the ground to pick it up. He dusts it off with a wince.
“Please tell me you’re not going to put that in your mouth.”
Till scowls and very resolutely doesn’t look to his side. He knows that goddamn voice. “It’s none of your business what I put in my mouth.”
Ivan makes a disgusted sound when Till does, in fact, take the cigarette between his lips again. “Smoking is bad for your lungs.” Till slowly drags his gaze to Ivan and gives him the most are you fucking serious? look he can muster.
When Till exhales, he blows directly in Ivan’s direction and laughs at the way his face screws up. “My lungs aren’t necessary to play.”
Ivan’s pink mouth curves into a frown. “What? I know that.”
The two stare at each other for a moment. Till raises an unamused eyebrow and Ivan looks at the bike rack. His hair’s starting to fall back over his forehead, gel softened throughout the day. He almost looks human like this, with messy hair and cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Ivan’s new coat is thicker than the ones he’d worn throughout fall. He’s finally wearing gloves too. Till takes a drag and imagines wrapping his scarf around Ivan’s neck — and then pulling, tighter and tighter. Just to be petty, he blows the smoke at Ivan again.
“Oh. Your bike’s gone.”
Till wonders why Ivan knows which bike is his. Then he remembers that his bike is — was a literal piece of junk, and it wasn’t hard to pick out from a lineup of actual bikes. “Yep.” Till comforts himself with another drag that bites at his lungs.
“Do you want a ride home?”
Till stares at him. “What.”
“What?”
“Gross.” Till’s lip curls in disdain at the smile on Ivan’s face. “Don’t do that.”
Ivan’s smile disappears. “Do what?”
Till taps his cigarette and watches ashes scatter at their feet. “I don’t need shit from you.” Till wonders what Ivan would sound like if Till just…pressed the lit end of his cigarette to Ivan’s flesh. Not those talented hands of his — Till isn’t that cruel — but maybe his shoulder, his chest right over his heart, the very center of his tongue. Who is Ivan without his eloquence, without his effortless charm, without his honeyed words? Would Ivan gasp, would he cry out at the burn, would his tongue desperately attempt to retreat further into his mouth away from Till’s violence?
“You’re smiling.” Ivan says it like an accusation. He’s right.
Till lets the smile stretch wider across his face. “Fuck off, Ivan.” Till doesn’t bother with pleasantry. No one is owed his politeness, least of all Ivan.
Ivan leaves with a frown twisting his pretty features. Till begins his miserable walk home. Better than letting Ivan hold something as ridiculous as a ride home above his head.
Till shows up just as early for their next rehearsal on Monday. Of course, Ivan shows up extra early as well.
“Making a bad habit of being late.” Till mock-sighs when the elevator doors open on the fourth floor and Ivan steps out, violin case slung over his shoulder. Ivan blinks at him before laughing. Till scowls.
Ivan stands on the other side of the closed door. Unlike Till, who’s taken to leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed and his violin case at his feet, Ivan looks completely content to just…stand there, with his perfect posture and everything.
When the door opens and the quartet file out, one of them says Ivan’s name like seeing him is the highlight of her entire existence. Ivan smiles at her and the two talk in…French? Till’s never been any good with languages, but the noises they make sound French.
Till shoulders his way past them into the rehearsal room. Ivan follows a few moments after and closes the door behind himself.
“That was rude.” Ivan scolds as he removes his coat. He’s wearing a button-up underneath this time, with a silver necklace dipping into the hollow of his throat. The shirt is pinched neatly at his waist into elegant slacks. Even his simple black leather boots drip luxury.
“Unlike you, I don’t see the need to paste a fake smile on and pretend to care about people I barely know.”
Ivan pauses in taking his violin out of its case. “I don’t —”
“You do.” Till interrupts, tightening his bow. “Did you even know her name?”
Ivan stares at him. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and Till grimaces.
“We’ll start from the moderato, you need to work on your cadenza.” Till orders. Ivan is still smiling.
“My cadenza is just fine.”
Till points his bow at Ivan like a sword. He thinks about touching the hairs of the bow to Ivan’s throat, gliding it across the strings of his vocal cords. Blood would ruin the front of his expensive shirt. Any sounds he’d make would be the most beautiful piece Till has ever performed. “No, it isn’t. If you’re going to be the soloist, you need to stop pretending to give a shit and actually give a shit about the music you’re playing.”
“I do —”
“You don’t.” Till’s voice raises. Acid bubbles in his stomach and drips from every word. “We both know that position doesn’t belong to you.”
“Till —”
“Do you feel any guilt at all, Ivan? Knowing that you’re not half the violinist I am, that your daddy’s money bought your way into that position? Or did you decide to be a big boy and get there on your own merits? If nothing else, surely your mouth must be your one redeeming quality.”
Ivan blinks slowly. When it doesn’t seem that Till is going to cut him off again, he says, “You should save your psychoanalysis for someone less aware of their own self-worth. And perhaps focus on something more within your limited purview — you were lucky to make concertmaster. Stop being so ungrateful.”
The temperature in the room seems to plummet. Till feels the chill in his bones. His hands ache. His face tingles, somehow too hot and too cold at the same time. For the first time in almost a decade, Till is thrown back to when words like that used to sting; when he had to scrounge the couch cushions for change to catch the bus to school, when his shoes were so worn down his mom wrapped tape around them to keep the soles on, when kids would giggle at his too-short-too-scrawny-too-dirty frame and he would feel sick with anger and embarrassment.
The first time he punched someone for the way they talked about him, the sting in his hand made the hollow feeling in his gut settle.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Till’s own voice barely registers above the ringing in his ears. Even so, he doesn’t think he’s ever sounded quite like this.
Unconcerned, Ivan finishes applying rosin to his bow and reaches for his violin. “Is your hearing going? Perhaps that’s why you play the way you do.”
Ivan doesn't even have the decency to look surprised when Till drops his bow back into the case and stalks towards him. Till is a full half head shorter but he feels ten foot tall, finallyfinallyfinally wrapping his hand around the base of Ivan’s throat. “Shut up.”
Ivan blinks down at him. He holds the neck of his violin, dangling towards the ground. Till can feel him swallow before he says, “Do you think you intimidate me, Till?”
There’s no fear in Ivan’s dark eyes. The corner of his mouth is tugging into a smile, and Till sees the flash of a too-pointy canine.
The sound of his hand making contact with Ivan’s cheek cracks through the room. “Always running your fucking mouth.” He tightens his fingers. His palm stings. Something like pleasure sparks down his spine at the shock on Ivan’s face.
“You can’t hit me.” Ivan says stupidly. One of his hands comes up to grip Till’s wrist.
“Just did.” Till shoots back. Ivan’s eyes, wide and startled, are fixed on Till. His lips are parted slightly and his cheek is already going pink.
When Ivan finally speaks, his voice is quieter than Till has heard it before. “Is that all you’ve got? Pathetic.”
The second and third strikes land with a startling crack of sound. Ivan’s head turns with the impact, the sharp sound of skin-on-skin breaking through the silence. When Ivan drags his gaze back to Till’s, something jolts low in Till’s gut. Tears cling to Ivan’s lower lashes. Both of his hands are on Till’s wrist now, gripping tight — not pushing him away. Not trying to pry Till’s grip off his neck. Clinging to a lifeline. His hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking. He’s leaning forward, pressing his own throat into Till’s grasp.
“Jesus christ,” Till mutters, his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. He tightens his grip and feels Ivan’s gasp as much as he sees his mouth open around the sound. Ivan’s teeth are all white and straight, a perfect row of polished tombstone upon tombstone, with a single canine further forward than the rest of his teeth. “You’re fucking gagging for it, aren’t you?”
The back of Till’s hand lands against Ivan’s left cheek, snapping his head the other way, the flush of contact spreading like wildfire across his pale skin. Till’s jaw aches with the predatory urge to sink his teeth into flesh, to tear, to stain Ivan’s flawless skin with the vibrant crimson of his own blood.
Ivan makes a wrecked noise, one of those tears finally falling and sliding its way down a burning cheek. He shuffles a little on his feet, like he’s trying to step away. Except he doesn’t move. He stands right where Till has him, all but squirming and rubbing his thighs together.
Maybe Till should be shocked that Ivan is hard. Really, all he feels is the same way he does when he manages to perfect a piece for the first time — something a little too smug to be victory, like he’s put the piece where it belongs; at his feet, under his hands, molded into the exact shape that it’s meant to be.
On the heels of that feeling is the realization that Till himself is aching in his worn jeans. Arousal thrums through his body with every bloody pulse of his heart.
Till forces his leg between Ivan’s thighs. Ivan’s breath catches, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, as Till presses against the firm pressure he finds in those expensive slacks.
“Gross.” Till says. Ivan’s expression crumples. The sound he makes is one of pure misery even as his hips betray him, canting forward to meet Till’s thigh. “You’re disgusting.” Till insists. His words stick together, too excited to distinguish each syllable properly. It was a problem he had when he was younger. Speak slowly, Till, no one can understand you. “You’re fucking sick.”
Ivan whines. It sounds like he understands Till just fine. For a moment, Till has the dizzying thought that if anyone else has heard Ivan like this, Till will fucking kill them. This sick, fucked up, pathetic Ivan belongs only to Till. Ivan makes a noise like a kicked puppy when Till tries to pull his hand away from his neck.
“Let go.” Till says firmly. Ivan looks miserable. He clings tighter to Till’s wrist. More tears fall. He lets go.
Till weaves his fingers into the shorter hair at the base of Ivan’s skull, seizing a handful with a grip tight enough to hurt. Ivan’s moan sounds like thank you. When Till pulls, Ivan tilts his head back and exposes the vulnerable line of his throat.
Thank you, Ivan says, as though Till is giving him a gift. Till yanks harder and Ivan cries out, a sound like it’s torn from the depths of his chest. Till can feel Ivan’s thighs trembling and jolting. Despite that, his hips are still grinding against the pressure, each clumsy jerk of his waist dragging more of those pathetic noises from his mouth. Till sees that Ivan’s hands have found purchase at his own thighs, creasing the expensive fabric in his grip.
“You’re humping my leg like a bitch in heat.” Till laughs. Ivan’s dark eyebrows draw together and his pink mouth forms a pout.
“No.” Ivan says. His voice is weak, broken by his own arousal.
Till grabs at his jaw and hopes that he leaves bruises, that he mars Ivan’s flawless skin with dark smudges in the shapes of Till’s fingers. He forces Ivan’s head into a nod. “Yes. You look so pathetic like this.” Till presses two fingers to the moue of Ivan’s pretty mouth and shoves them inside. Ivan’s tongue flinches under the pressure.
Ivan’s attempt at a response is strangled. His mouth, so used to spitting venom, is stretched open around the violation of Till’s fingers. Ivan gags when Till presses deeper, drool escaping the corners of his lips to trail down his chin. His body still writhes upon Till’s thigh in a broken, desperate rhythm.
Depthless eyes glisten with tears.
Fingers wet with spit, Till pulls his hand from Ivan’s mouth and delivers another strike to his cheek.
Ivan cums with a sob. His eyes squeeze shut, a tear tracking down his red face. His knees buckle and he slides to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Till doesn’t bother trying to prop him up.
Aftershocks continue to twitch through his body. His breaths are heavy, shuddering gasps that wrack his frame. The red imprints of Till’s hand stand out against the pink of his cheeks. When Ivan’s eyes flutter open, he stares up at Till with something like awe. He’s laid bare, stripped of all pretense, all aristocratic poise discarded at Till’s feet like trash.
Without saying a word, Till crouches in the pathetic sprawl of Ivan’s legs. Ivan’s eyes are locked onto where Till knows his own arousal must be visible. He says Till’s name, just once, rising at the end — Till?
“Say ‘ahhh'.” Till sing-songs. Ivan’s mouth trembles for a moment before he opens it. His eyes, reddened and wet, stare at Till with an intensity that wavers somewhere between embarrassment and need. Till collects saliva in his mouth and spits it onto the center of Ivan’s tongue, right where he’s spent countless hours thinking about pressing the burning end of a cigarette.
Ivan’s throat bobs as he jerks his head to the side with a gag, the sound wet and revolting.
“Think twice before you spit it out.” Till warns in the most pleasant voice he can muster. Ivan shudders.
After a moment Ivan swallows. Perfect teeth sink into plush skin as he bites his lower lip, another shiver running through him.
Till’s gaze roams over Ivan’s appearance. He looks like a fucking wreck. Till grins as he rises to his feet. “Make sure your violin isn’t broken, yeah?” He taps the instrument with the toe of his shoe. Ivan looks at it like he doesn’t recognize the damned thing. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d let go of it to grasp at Till’s wrist instead.
Till whistles to himself as he leaves, pulling his headphones up over his ears.
Like a fucking idiot, Till locks himself away in a restroom and braces a forearm against the cold tiled wall, the clink of his belt and sound of his zipper echoing in the small space. Till thinks about the slick shine of Ivan’s mouth, the tear tracks on his cheeks, the dark mess in his slacks. Till leans forward to sink his teeth into his own wrist to muffle the curses and moans that threaten to fall from him. When Till cums, he streaks the inside of the toilet bowl and senselessly wishes that he were marking Ivan’s face instead.
Ivan doesn’t show up for either of their classes together.
Their orchestra holds practices in the evening on Thursdays, and when Till finally sees him later that night, some sick, sticky pleased feeling spreads in his gut because Ivan’s wearing different slacks. After the first few times Ivan’s face goes red when their eyes meet, he seems determined to avoid Till’s gaze.
As always, their director tells Ivan how wonderful he is. She praises his cadenza. Till pulls a face where she can’t see.
They take a break and Till steps outside for a smoke. Ivan catches up to him out the front. He’s finally wearing a scarf, a deep red one that covers the lower half of his face. Till can see that the tops of his cheeks are flushed and he wonders how much of it is from the cold.
“From now on.” Ivan begins. He still isn’t meeting Till’s eyes. “We should rehearse elsewhere.”
Till frowns. “The practice rooms in the dorms are just as busy as the fourth floor.”
“Yes.” Ivan agrees.
Till blinks at him.
“I have a music room. At my apartment.” Ivan finally says, and Till watches as pink dusts across the strong bridge of his nose. “It should be sufficient.”
Till has never heard of Ivan inviting anyone over before. It’s definitely the kind of thing that people would brag about. “You just want to get me alone.”
“Of course not.” Ivan says, too fast to be anything other than a lie.
Till grins. It’s a mean smile. He can feel it, can hear it in his own voice. “Right. Sure. You just want more privacy for our…rehearsals.”
Ivan shoves his hands further into his coat pockets. “One would wonder what kind of performance you’re envisioning.”
“Always so dramatic,” Till rolls his eyes and swaps phones with Ivan to input his contact. “Sure, we can rehearse at yours. Just send me the address.”
“You don’t know where I live?”
“Huh? Why would I?” Till pauses for a moment. “Jesus, do you know where I live?”
This time Ivan’s reply doesn’t come fast enough. “Of course not.”
“You’re such a freak.” Till says, and gets to watch Ivan do that little shuffle-step as his ears go pink. He wonders how long Ivan has reacted like this to Till’s cruel barbs without him even realizing.
After a long moment, they swap their phones again and Ivan heads back inside. Till drops the remains of his cigarette into the snow, pressing the toe of his shoe to it for good measure.
Ivan is talking to the director again. Till sits and waits for rehearsals to resume, pressing his thumb to the hairs of his bow.
Till taps his powdery thumb to his index and middle fingers and counts; a canine further forward than the rest. A freckle beside his right eye.
A list of imperfections. A list of things that make Ivan seem a little closer to human.