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Till always hated the faint red thread tied around his left pinky finger. It was a ridiculous concept. He did not care about destiny or soulmates or any of that crap. He cared about his guitar, his music, and paying rent on time. The string was a daily nuisance that only he seemed to notice, constantly getting in the way while he practiced chords in his cramped apartment.
Tonight was no different. The underground club was hot and smelled of stale beer and sweat. Till stood on the small wooden stage, tuning his battered acoustic guitar. As he adjusted the pegs, the ethereal red line tugged tight. It pulled his hand slightly to the right. He scowled and followed the glowing thread with his eyes.
It wove through the crowded pit of sweaty college students and ended near the back bar. There, leaning against the counter with an infuriatingly serene smile, stood Ivan.
Of course it was Ivan.
Ivan wore a crisp black turtleneck that looked entirely out of place in the dingy music venue. He caught Till staring and raised a glass of ice water in a silent, mocking toast. The red string was tied neatly around Ivan's pale finger, pulled taut between the two of them.
Till felt a familiar flush of heat rise to his face. He quickly looked down at his fretboard and struck a harsh, dissonant chord. The crowd quieted down, and Till launched into his first song. He poured his frustration into the aggressive strumming. He sang about the suffocating feeling of being tied down and the annoying inevitability of fate.
Through the entire thirty-minute set, he could feel the slight, persistent tension on his pinky. Ivan never looked away.
After the show, Till shoved his guitar into its case and pushed his way through the lingering audience to the back of the room.
"You were staring," Till grumbled, stopping right in front of the taller boy.
"You were looking at me," Ivan replied. His dark eyes glinted with quiet amusement. He lifted his hand, letting the glowing red thread go slack. "You played very well tonight, Till."
"Save the flattery," Till muttered, though the tips of his ears burned a bright red. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets.
Ivan stepped closer. The proximity made the thread between them vanish into a short, tight knot. "Are you hungry? I know a quiet diner nearby."
Till desperately wanted to say no. He wanted to walk out into the cold night air and pretend the string did not exist. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh and nodded once. "Fine, but you're paying."
Ivan smiled. It was a soft expression that made Till's chest ache in a way he refused to analyze. They walked out the door together, connected by a thread that Till was slowly starting to tolerate.