Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Thank you purplemist42 for the donation— as for your question, I haven't played it yet, but I might if you guys want me to. What do y'all think?” 

Another day, another livestream, and Till is once again trying to entertain thousands of people whilst running on less than four hours of sleep. It does get tiring, exhausting, even. But still, it’s almost surreal he's gotten successful enough that he can just live off his streams and music.

He could actually rent out a bigger apartment now and not even need a roommate anymore, but Ivan and him go way back. Plus, he cooks everyday. Till doesn't even get to fondly reminisce about his take-out filled days when Ivan is out there whipping out five-star, three-course straight-up heavenly meals on the daily. He does feel a little bit bad about not helping, but his past attempts left much to be desired (and may have gotten the fire department called), so this arrangement seems ideal.

Besides, he enjoys their little shared space. The way you can clearly tell what's Till’s doing and what's Ivan’s, the occasional compromise found in the bookshelf half-filled with CDs and records, old sketchbooks and other paraphernalia, half-filled with various books—mostly classics, though Till knows there's some trashy queer romances in there as well.

And, okay, fine. He's matured enough to admit he'd grown fond of his roommate’s presence. Not that he'd actually tell him that, the last thing that bastard needs is an ego boost.

Point is, Till likes how his life is going so far, something he'd never thought he'd get to say without a hint of dishonesty or disdain.

TealEnjoyer_ Donated 5 subs! Your new album is sooooo good!!!! I've been listening to it non-stop, I gotta ask tho, are you alright? you look tired

That’s also something he can’t quite get used to. People worrying about him. Or, well, anyone other than Ivan and the very few friends he’s amounted over the years. Sure, maybe he can’t quite hide his weariness as well as a certain black haired blockhead whose masks are glued to his face at this point, but at least before Till didn’t get fretted over by strangers. They’d just see the troublemaker kid with a fucked up home life and think business as usual.

Of course, these aren’t completely random bystanders or whatever, they’re his fans, people who’ve taken somewhat of a liking to him for some reason, and while he doesn’t want to feed into the parasocialism he knows is bound to happen, the majority of them do at least seem genuine in their worry, and not just wanting him to hurry up and  get better so he can keep on working. Till finds he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would, even with the usual way he vehemently denies anything is out of place.

It’ll take some getting used to, regardless.

“Aaah thank you, both for the subs and the compliment haha…” Still unused to the fame, Till knows he's blushing, what he is used to, however, is his chat’s habit of commenting on said blushing, “I’m alright, yeah! Something just kept me up at night so I didn't sleep all that well.”

“Thanks guys I appreciate it, hah, anyways— it was lovely talking with you all. Sorry that this was a pretty short just chatting stream, I think we could do a gaming one next time, or may-” It was in that fateful moment, his roommate, best friend, biggest nuisance of his life since they were dirt-eating age, absolutely insufferable Ivan made the possibly worst timed entrance in the history of entering places. Which is probably pretty long considering that's how you get places.

“Hey Till, have you seen my—” And there he was, in all his post-shower, wearing a thin, almost sheer sleeveless crop top, towel-over-his-shoulders glory, “—oh! You're streaming right now.”

Suddenly, the chat went up in flames.

Feeling his cheeks heat up once more at the insinuations currently flooding his chat, Till looks back at his roommate, who for one is wearing an insufferably smug look and not saying anything. Till’s starting to think the dipshit enjoys this. “Yes. I’m streaming. Go away.” He grits out.

“I just got here though. Also, have you seen my jacket?” The picture of innocence as a disguise for an unending penchant for mischief inquires, tilting his head to the side like the forty-five degree angle will make the jacket appear out of thin air. One may call it cute. Not Till though. He doesn’t think that. At All. Even if he did, he’s still pissed off at him. He spares a look at his chat and what he sees somehow flusters him more.

THIS STUPID FUCKINGISWEARTOGODIVANI’LL- “Can you just. Get out? Please?” Till considers whether or not jumping across the room to rip Ivan’s face off while thousands of people watch would be against the guidelines of the website he streams on. Surely they’ll let this slide after hearing his case.

“Did you steal it? I mean I don’t mind sharing, you could’ve just asked though,” grinning, because the fucker most definitely knows what his chat is thinking even though it’s impossible for him to read it while staying at the threshold between Till’s room-slash-studio and the rest of the apartment. Now he’s leaning on the doorway crossing his arms, which does wonders to show the sliver of skin– nope. Not going there. Focus.

Till sneaks another glance towards his chat.

God fucking damnit Ivan.

“I didn’t fucking steal– argh! Whatever!” Getting up from his chair– feeling his knees wobble slightly because sitting on your ass for the best part of a day does that– Till stalks over to the resident menace, who almost seems startled by his boldness, however, before he can say anything, Till grabs him by the collar, “Your jacket isn’t here and you know it, now stop bothering me, jackass,” he then promptly pushes said jackass out and slams the door. Locks it, for good measure. 

He can still hear Ivan’s whiny voice through the door, even with his almost entirely soundproofed room, “Aw Till, was there a need to be so callous?”

Flipping off the door even though Ivan can’t actually see him, Till snarls “Go fuck yourself.”

“Sure.” 

Perhaps he blushed at that. Maybe. He hears snickers outside the door. Asshole.

Sitting back down as if nothing happened, Till continues, “Well, anyways as I was saying before I got rudely interrupted by someone–”

BunnyGirlie Donated 15 subs! You cant just NOT tell us who that was. Was he your boyfriend??? if not then whats his type. also phone number. asking for a friend.

Till rolls his eyes, “That idiot is my roommate. No we’re not dating, that is a scenario from my worst nightmares, actually.” His mood only sours further, he just wants to end the stream and go take a nap, or, more realistically, attempt to, fail, then go into a creative spiral for too many hours until Ivan drags him out of his room to eat.

Maybe Sua has a point when she says his eyes will fall off with how much he rolls them. In his defense, people continue to give him reason to, “No. I mean, he’s single, I guess. But I don’t think he’s interested in dating or… anything romantic really,” thinking back to all the times he’s seen his friend reject people’s confessions, “And he might have a pretty face but let me tell you that man is a bastard once you get to know him. Seriously.”

Trailing his fingers through his coarse silver hair, Till tries to not let his annoyance show, “But really gang, I’ve got to get going, I’ll try to do something more exciting for the next stream, alright? I’m working on some music related stuff right now, that’s why they’ve been more sporadic and shorter but I promise I’ll get to regular schedule and bring more fun things soon.”

Smiling slightly, Till ends the stream, not before doing a little awkward wave. He’s almost as bad at ending streams as he is at starting them.

The reflection shown on his monitor solidified what he already feared— he looks like actual shit.

The shit that you step on the pavement then drag around the whole day and no matter how many times you try to wipe it off on door mats it won't come off completely. A fitting metaphor for his person, but still.

Sighing, Till drags his body over to the bed and promptly throws himself on it. Gracefully, of course.

He wants to catch a few Zs. Sleep. Be knocked out. Take a little nap. even five minutes of sweet sweet unconsciousness to briefly free him from the burden of existence would be great. Till doesn't get nice things though, so of course that is not what happened.

Like clockwork, or perhaps a self-fullfilling prophecy, Till can’t fall asleep.

Of fucking course. Still, he tries. And fails. After tossing and turning for a good half hour, he then proceeds to give up on such endeavors. Gathering his notebooks and composition notes feel as easy as breathing with how routine this is. Staring at the drafts for his latest song feels more like drowning. Nevertheless, at least he can attempt to get something vaguely productive done.

Is this too much? Flipping to to other pages, picking up another notebook with other drafts and ideas. Argh. Too corny. Too… Honest. There’s something missing– Another notebook. Random arrays of paper with compositions carelessly scribbled on them. No, no, no! Something is not clicking. Goddamnit. 

Back to the first couple lyrics, ones he had been somewhat happy with at some point, however the doubt began to settle anew.

Biting the top of his pen, scribbling small anecdotes and doodling tiny flowers of an unspecified, possibly nonexistent, species, is where Till finds himself once again.

He's barely happy with the beginning of the song anymore. Why even bother thinking about the rest. There's just something missing and he can't decipher what it is. Usually he'd ask Ivan for some input, but given the song is shamefully, vaguely, inspired by the man in question… Yeah, no. Absolutely not, in fact.

Fiddling with the melody didn't get him anywhere either which is a predicament he finds himself in often these days. When that particular creative outlet proves itself to be ineffective, Till turns to drawing.

His battered and well loved sketchbook sits on his lap, it was a gift from Ivan, a couple months or so back. He's about two thirds of the way in on that one. Other varied sketchbooks circle his hunched over figure. Most of them were a gift from Ivan, too.

Right. Ivan. His roommate. The person who embarrassed him greatly in front of thousands of his viewers a couple hours ago. That Ivan. Right. The same Ivan who is currently all over the page— scratch that, all over pretty much all artistic mediums Till’s ever dabbled in, because that fuckers annoyingly silky but fluffy hair, infuriatingly pretty face, sinfully grabbable waist, his adorable snaggletooth, his fucking eyes—

Well. He is just a good subject. Objectively attractive. It makes sense Till draws him all the time. Obviously. It's also completely normal that he plagues his every waking thought and,

Three sudden, rapid knocks on his door. Followed by “C’mon Till, are you still mad?” Shit, “ It's been hours, Till. Dinner's ready, it'd be awful to not have your illustrious presence there~” God Fucking Damnit!

Till scurried to hide away all the evidence that the man currently behind the door is the muse that occupies his mind more than anything ought to. Ivan's terrible timing I swear—

“...Hey, are you actually mad about earlier?” The source of all his troubles yet all his comforts simultaneously keeps talking, as Till attempts to stuff his sketchbook in his secret stash “...I mean, if you are–’’

“I’m not mad god— I mean I am but not–!” Curse his jumbled thoughts, “---I’ll be there just gimme a sec,” After assessing his hair as unsalvageable for now, splashing some water on his face, and asking himself why even care to look vaguely put together in front of a man that has seen Till in every state of distress and disarray, to no avail, he unlocks the door to find Ivan’s stupidly gorgeous face.

Also, he’s wearing the way too small Hello Kitty apron Hyuna got him as a joke. That does not bode well for Till’s cardiac health.

“Oh, you’re alive!” Faux gleefulness incarnate exclaims, masking his previous surprised reaction, “Really, I was starting to think you either died and those noises were scavenger animals doing their thing, or you got tired of my cooking. The former seemed more likely, though.” The bastard is grinning, because of course he is. Till rolls his eyes, a practiced motion considering who he has to put up with everyday.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever weird bullshit you say.”

As always, Ivan’s cooking proves to be disgustingly good, which for a guy adopted into an unfathomably rich family feels almost unfair, but such is life. Till’s failed attempts not to audibly moan after each bite of tteokbokki thankfully go unmentioned by Ivan– who already finished his plate– as he begins talking, “So, about earlier…”

They’re both sitting on the shitty sofa one of them bought second-hand a couple years back, watching some boring movie that happened to be on. Their shoulders are almost touching. A fact that no one dwells on because that would be strange. Obviously. Why would anyone even overanalyze simple shoulder-touching.

Swallowing, Till interrupts him, “Yeah, earlier. Why didn’t you leave when I asked you to? I know you like to get under my skin but the longer you stayed there more likely someone was to figure out who you are, which I know is the last thing you want, and I would hate to be tied to whatever mess this creates , plus–” He rambled, initial irritation morphing into worry as the possibility of someone discovering his best friend’s identity became more real with each word that tumbled out of his mouth. 

“Till, It’s fine.”

Aaaaand that ignited the aforementioned irritation right back, “What do you mean it’s fine??? I thought you didn’t want people to know you used to be a model???”

Ivan’s former career as a model is probably the least shocking thing about him. With that face and that body it’s almost expected, really. Still, the industry sucks. Sua and him got put there way too young by their parents, and as soon as they could, both quit and went no-contact. After some time working oddjobs here and there, as well as some encouragement from Till, his roommate began producing music. Something he’s actually passionate about. He’s a faceless creator, not wanting people to draw him back to his model days, but what does that matter when he’s just showing up like that without a single care what it could mean what if someone found out–

“I don’t. I also don’t think my former fanbase and your current one have much overlap, either. Also, if there’s any suspicion, which I doubt, we can just… not confirm nor deny it,” Moving the dishes to the kitchen sink, he proceeds, in a lighter tone, “A week is a hundred years on the internet after all, people will forget about it fast.”

Unconvinced, but out of arguments, Till responds, “Fine. If you say so,” And because he can never stay mad at Ivan enough for it to linger, “Now get back here, there’s this series I want to check out and I might as well get your only-watches-documentaries-and-the-news ass to finally watch something of substance.”

Ivan snorts, actually snorts, that ugly almost-laugh Till both hates and adores because he’s rarely seen Ivan give it to anyone else, “How dare you. My documentaries have plenty of substance. Many of them in fact–-” he giggles at Till’s unimpressed face “-- I’m coming, I’m coming, let me just finish washing the dishes. Also, finish your food.” You haven’t been eating much, I’m worried, is what he does not say.

Even with the playful tone, Till knows Ivan’s insistence on him finishing his meals comes from a place of concern for his wellbeing (clearly because he wouldn't have as much fun tormenting Till were he sick), so he does as he's told for once. Also, Ivan is not above spoon-feeding him when necessary. He probably would enjoy that a lot actually. The bastard.

Woe is Till, seeing that the fretting, loathe is he to admit it, warms his chest and calms his nerves. He chalks it up to an urge to throw up. Naturally.

Dishes washed, Till’s plate licked clean and Ivan’s (really nice, his brain supplies) butt seated back on the sofa, Till fiddles with the remote, trying to search for the show-– which is not that a hard a task considering his roommate's ridiculous amount of streaming service subscriptions. Sometimes he still pirates things for the thrill of it or just to prove a point but today taking the easy route felt commendable.

The series was fine. The first episode was a bit too slow paced yet awfully confusing; though that may be the fault of teal eyes that kept drifting off to black ones.

Till betrayed the notion of actually paying attention to simply focusing wholly and completely on the man besides him approximately forty minutes into the second episode. A great show of restraint on his part, he reckons. A weaker man would've folded way sooner.

Archiving his side profile illuminated by a soft blue glow into his mind for later reference when he finds himself wanting to draw something yet not knowing what (it's always him), admiring his cute little focused but relaxed face, the way his brows furrow when the protagonist makes a baffling decision. An uncommon albeit simple expression. The appeal of an unguarded, unmasked Ivan is one he can’t bring himself to deny anymore.

The minutes tick by. His oggling persists. Till’s eyelids start to droop, his body feels heavier, the urge to lean on the other’s shoulder growing stronger as well. He does give in, eventually.

Already half-asleep, Till barely registers the stiffening of the body beneath him. He’s not quite unconscious yet, even if his slowed breaths and heartbeat suggest otherwise. The TV, which had become background noise at that point, is turned off.

Distantly, Till can feel arms sneaking beneath his knees and back before being lifted into a bridal carry. That’s the exact moment he passes the fuck out.

Sunshine filtering through the window. Till’s bleary eyes slowly open after another weirdass dream afflicts his troubled mind. It’s getting ridiculous at this point.

They’ve been happening with more frequency as of late, and without fail every single morning Till awakens sweaty, feeling gross and like the image you’d find upon looking up the saying ‘like death warmed over’.

Belatedly, he realizes the soft surface he’s currently sprawling upon is not, in fact, the crappy sofa in the living room and is instead his actual bed. Which, unless there’s been a new sleepwalking development in his already fucked up brain, means Ivan carried him there. Awesome. Great, even. Whatever. He needs a shower.

Rubbing his eyes to take more of the state of his room, which is immediately followed by a groan upon taking said state in and realizing he’ll have to clean everything at some point.

Stupid creativity fueled mania. Stupid dreams. Stupid Ivan. Whatever.

Till enters the bathroom.

Okay so. Maybe he hadn’t realized there was an endless supply of cooking oil on his hair. Perhaps the nastiness of the state of his body after not showering for a while (he didn’t notice that!! There was other stuff going on!!) was perceived by everyone except himself. Alas, such a fact remains unchanged, but at least Till feels less gross now. Small wins and all that.

With his trusty post-shower hair care routine– that is, abusing the hair follicles with how forcefully he dries his unruly hair with a scratchy towel– done, Till picks up his phone to see if anything new popped up. 

He entertains the idea. After all, he did promise on his last stream that he’d do something more interesting next time, and this would definitely qualify. Other than a couple errands on some days, his usual lyric writing and working with whichever art medium he decides to unleash his visions upon, Till doesn’t have much going on this week.

So, he agrees.

At the kitchen counter, a lone note rests.

Till’s mouth quirks up a bit. The small doodle of the kaomoji Ivan likes using on his texts so much is an amusing sight. But also, really goddamn cute. This fucking guy.

As he’s scarfing down the (delicious, of course) breakfast, a notification startles him out of his seat. Minutely, he feels thankful Ivan left because he would have absolutely made fun of him for that. He checks his phone.  Mizi responded to his message.