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Summary
These days, Till finds solace in the fact that he was right in his suspicions. The violin may have disciplined Ivan, but the guitar pushes his throat past the limits their old world had imposed on him.
On the stage, the heat makes Ivan's hair curl, allowing him to look as ragged as he did during all their childhood tussles. His leather jacket, which now lies discarded somewhere near the entryway, still smells like the hotteok Till burned in their kitchen a couple of nights ago. There’s a tiny brown smear near the zipper of his pants where he spilled a little bit of sauce from the kimchi okonomiyaki he had been eating before rehearsals, because Ivan is the kind to spill things on himself without consequence now.
(Or: When it comes down to it, there's not that much difference between making music and making love.)