Work Text:
FANFIC
The silence following Ivan’s fall was deafening.
His body lay crumpled at the bottom of the constructed set piece, a dim red spotlight casting an ominous glow over the blood pooling beneath him. From above, Till stared down, eyes half-lidded in practiced detachment, waiting for the final cue.
And then—
“End scene!”
The director’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.
Immediately, the house lights snapped on with a soft electrical hum. The illusion broke. The cold, murderous set became a stage again, and Till exhaled slowly through his nose, his shoulders rolling back in a lazy stretch.
He lingered at the top of the platform a moment longer, squinting down at Ivan’s unmoving body.
“…You okay?” he called, voice dry but laced with something quieter—concern. He descended the steps two at a time and offered his hand, arching one brow in a typical Till fashion, like he wasn’t emotionally invested in the answer.
Ivan blinked open his eyes, his expression neutral even with the fake blood streaking down his cheek. His voice was calm. “I’m not dead, am I? So… pretty okay.”
A soft, sardonic snort escaped Till as he tugged Ivan up with one smooth pull. “I was asking if you were injured, not if you’re ready for your funeral.” His words carried irritation, but his grip lingered longer than necessary, and his eyes flicked down to Ivan’s mouth—just briefly.
“Coffee?” Till offered, shrugging one shoulder like it didn’t matter. “Before we head back?”
Ivan nodded once, short and efficient. “Yeah. Sure.”
He turned on his heel and strode toward the changing rooms. The moment he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the controlled expression slipped.
His hand trembled slightly as he grabbed a napkin. He dabbed at the corner of his mouth where the fake blood should’ve ended—but it hadn’t. The sharp tang of metal returned to his tongue. He spat into the trash and stared. Red.
Real red.
Ivan grimaced. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to stifle the bleeding. There had been something—small, metallic, barely noticeable—lodged in the back of his throat during the kissing scene. He thought he’d swallowed it by accident. Guess that was true.
He cleaned himself up quickly, wiped the corners again for good measure, changed into a casual black hoodie and jeans, and walked out like nothing happened.
Till was leaning against the wall outside, scrolling his phone with one hand and holding car keys in the other. When he saw Ivan approach, he straightened and, without a word, reached out, lacing his fingers loosely through Ivan’s.
“You sure you’re fine?” he asked, his voice low but not unkind. His thumb brushed lightly against Ivan’s cold knuckles.
Ivan’s voice came just a little too fast. “Yes. I’m fine. It was just a scene.”
Till didn’t answer immediately. He stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, then finally sighed and unlocked the car. “If you say so.”
The city passed by in streaks of dull gray and the occasional flicker of neon. Rain tapped against the windshield in soft rhythms, and Till drove with one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
Ivan’s hand found his again—not quite holding it, more like resting on top of it. His fingers were cool and still, barely curling around Till’s palm. His head leaned back against the window. Eyes closed.
Till flushed faintly but didn’t move.
He kept his eyes on the road, pretending he hadn’t noticed the way his pulse sped up just a little.
“…You’re a weirdo,” he muttered, voice softer than usual.
Ivan gave a lazy hum, lips parting slightly. “Mhh… takes one… to know one.”
His words slurred slightly. Till’s eyes flicked sideways.
Before he could say anything else, Ivan’s breathing steadied—too steady.
He was asleep.
Till shook his head with a small, amused exhale. The tension in the car faded into a warm quiet, the radio murmuring in the background, the rain like static comfort.
For a while, it was fine.
But then—
The quiet was broken by a sudden, harsh cough.
Till’s eyes darted sideways. Ivan’s posture shifted, his head jerking forward as he coughed hard into his sleeve. The sound wasn’t right—it wasn’t the clear-your-throat kind. It was wet, choked, painful.
Till’s stomach dropped.
“Hey,” he said sharply, pulling the car over with a sharp jerk. He killed the engine. “You really are hurt.”
Ivan tried to cover it up again, hiding his sleeve, the way he always did—pushing things down, swallowing pain like it was an inconvenience.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Liar.”
Till reached over and yanked the sleeve up.
Blood. Fresh, bright. Not the fake kind. Not from makeup.
His heart stopped. For a second, all he could do was stare.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“I didn’t want to ruin the mood,” Ivan said, voice quieter now. “I just… swallowed something sharp on stage. It’ll pass.”
Till let out a strangled noise—half a scoff, half a growl.
“You’re an idiot,” he said, gripping Ivan’s arm tightly, more out of fear than anger. His voice had gone hoarse.
He didn’t speak again as he pulled back onto the road, the rain now sounding more like static than rhythm.
The silence between them was heavy—awkward, suffocating.
He didn’t let go of Ivan’s hand the whole drive.
By the time Till parked outside the dingy little corner café, the silence between them had already grown stiff and bristling. The neon sign buzzed overhead like it was too tired to be alive, casting a weak pink glow over the rain-speckled windshield. The inside of the car smelled faintly like stage makeup and damp polyester.
Till didn't move. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, elbow propped against the window. His eyes weren’t on the road anymore—they were fixed on nothing, lost somewhere between irritation and dread.
Ivan coughed lightly, not the dramatic, gut-wrenching kind—just a tight squeeze of air through his throat, like a warning light flashing in the background. He was slouched back against the seat, hands folded neatly in his lap, and despite the blood still faintly staining the corner of his mouth, he looked calm. Too calm.
"You’re not gonna say anything?" Till finally muttered, eyes still forward.
Ivan raised a brow. "About what?"
"Oh, I don’t know," Till snapped, turning toward him with a glare, "Maybe the fact that you swallowed something sharp and now brushing it off like it was no big deal. That kind of thing."
Ivan shrugged. "Thats because it ISN'T a big deal.."
Till rolled his eyes and finally unbuckled his seatbelt. "I'm not arguing about this. You’re lucky that performance was good enough to distract everyone. You scare me like that again, and I swear I’ll kick you into traffic."
Ivan smiled faintly and opened his door. "Noted."
They stepped out into the drizzle, the wet pavement glistening under the dim streetlights. Ivan tugged his hoodie sleeves down over his hands as they approached the café entrance. Till stayed half a step ahead but kept glancing back, annoyed, like he expected Ivan to collapse on the sidewalk.
Inside, the café was warm, cluttered, and mostly empty. Mismatched furniture, chalkboard menus, and some fuzzy jazz leaking from unseen speakers. Till marched to the counter while Ivan slid into a booth near the window, arms crossed.
From across the café, Till yelled over, "You want the usual? Or are you gonna suddenly reveal you’re allergic to coffee too?"
Ivan called back, voice even, "The usual. And I’m not allergic to anything."
"You’re allergic to common sense," Till muttered under his breath, though not low enough.
When he returned with two mugs and a paper bag of something sweet, Ivan was wiping at his mouth again with a napkin. There was more red on it than either of them liked.
Till shoved the coffee across the table. "Drink. Not because I care. But because if you die, I’ll have to explain it to the director, and I’m not doing that."
Ivan accepted the mug without flinching. "You do care."
"Shut up," Till said, but his voice was quieter now, his eyes lingering too long on Ivan’s sleeve before he looked away.
They drank in silence for a bit. The air between them wasn’t relaxed—it never was—but there was a rhythm to it, like two people who had long since learned how to exist next to each other without needing to fill every second.
Ivan’s hand twitched on the mug. He rested it on the table, but it was close to Till’s. Not touching—just... there.
Till noticed.
He didn’t say anything about it. Just tapped his fingers against the ceramic and stared out the window.
"You didn’t mess up the scene, by the way," Till finally said. "Even with the blood. You dying on stage was actually the best part."
Ivan blinked. "Thank you?"
"Don’t thank me. Just don’t do it again*"
"Swallow something sharp or die on stage?"
"*Yes*."
Ivan snorted—a rare sound. Till glanced at him, surprised.
"You really are an idiot," Till said, though there was the faintest upward twitch in his mouth.
Ivan turned his gaze to the rain sliding down the window. He was pale, sure. In pain, maybe. But there was something relaxed in the tilt of his shoulders now, like things had briefly aligned.
He didn’t say it aloud, but the way his eyes softened slightly—Till saw it anyway. His eyes lingered on Ivan, he wasn't going to look away from him anytime soon. He suddenly remembered an embarrassing question he had for Ivan since they were at the studio.
"Hey, Ivan?"
Ivans head shot up when Till said his name, He noticed the look on his face and answered, confused.
"Yes, Till?"
"Why did you mess up the kiss scene like- 2763 times?"
"UHHH."