Chapter Text
There were a few things Till learned about dating a former idol. The first was the silence.
Not exactly the silence of empty rooms, but a manufactured one, thick and expensive, bought and paid for by publicists and NDAs. It was the hush that fell over a trendy Korean bistro when they slipped into a back booth, Ivan’s oversized designer hoodie and Till’s battered beanie a pathetic disguise against the world.
It was the quiet click of the hotel suite door locking behind them, the only place Ivan’s laugh could be a real, unpolished thing and not a soundbite for fansites.
Till was an actor himself, yes. A good one. He’d spent years clawing his way out of the indie film circuit, trading gritty arthouse dramas for a few coveted leading roles. He was respected. He had credibility. His name in a trailer meant a certain quality, a weight.
But it seemed idols—even former ones like Ivan—were held to a different regard. A stricter, more suffocating regard. Especially when it came to dating.
Hence, the secrecy.
The second thing he learned was that Ivan was, frankly, a weirdo.
A gorgeous, internationally-recognized weirdo with a fanbase that could populate a small country, but a weirdo nonetheless.
"Stop moving," Till grumbled, his voice a low rasp in the plush quiet of their rented Aparthotel room. He had a script balanced on his knees, lines highlighted in angry teal, but his focus was entirely on the man using his thigh as a pillow.
Ivan hummed, not stopping his movement for a second. He was meticulously aligning individual Skittles—separated by color, because of course they were—along the seam of Till’s ripped jeans.
“And stop playing with your food,” Till had grumbled, lightly smacking his head with his script.
The dark-haired man doesn’t flinch. "It's a structural integrity test."
"Fascinating," Till deadpanned, eyes drifting from the script to the dark hair splayed across his leg. He itched to run his fingers through it, to mess up the perfectly styled waves Ivan had sported earlier for a magazine shoot. He settled for poking him lightly in the shoulder. "You're getting sugar on my pants."
"I'll buy you new ones. Something less... aggressively holey." Ivan didn't look up, his void-colored eyes narrowed in concentration as he placed a green Skittle.
"Don't you dare," Till’s protest was automatic, fond.
This was them. Ivan with his bizarre, hyper-focused quirks and bottomless wallet, Till with his grumpy exterior and a heart that had somehow gone and gotten itself wrapped around this ridiculous man.
It had started months ago, a slow burn on the set of a big-budget sci-fi epic where Till played the lost captain of a space shuttle and Ivan was the enigma, a morally-grey alien emissary. The chemistry the director praised in their scenes had sparked into something real, something frantic and hidden in the shadows of the soundstage after wrap and secret make-out sessions on the backstage toilet.
It was supposed to be a simple, no-strings fling.
Till, veteran of a dozen indie darlings and cynical character studies, had not accounted for Ivan. Ivan, who recited his lines with an otherworldly intensity and then, the second "cut!" was yelled, would immediately dig through his pockets to show Till a weird rock he'd found on the floor.
Ivan, who could stare down a green screen like it had personally offended him but would get oddly, endearingly flustered if Till so much as brushed against his hand between takes.
It was disgusting. Till was disgusted with himself.
He was utterly, pathetically gone.
"Your phone's buzzing," Ivan murmured, finally abandoning his candy architecture to nuzzle against Till's thigh. "It's probably your agent. Again. Tell her you're meditating. Or that you've been abducted by a superior alien species with impeccable taste and a mildly concerning Skittles emergency."
Till snorted, grabbing the offending device from the coffee table. The screen wasn't showing his agent. It was showing a push notification from a notorious gossip blog.
BREAKING: LUKA SPOTTED LEAVING IVAN'S APARTMENT BUILDING? ECLIPSE REUNION ON THE HORIZON?
posted by LICO Entertainment just now
He felt Ivan go still against his leg.
Luka. That was Ivan’s ex…colleague from Eclipse. And ex-boyfriend—or so the idol-circle rumors say. Till wished he'd press him more on the subject but the stubborn fool wouldn't budge.
"Again?" Till asked, his voice carefully neutral. He tried to swipe the notification away, but Ivan’s hand was already there, plucking the phone from his grasp.
Ivan’s face, so open and soft a moment ago, had shuttered. That polished, public smile—the one Till privately called his ‘mannequin smile’—was clicking into place.
"It's nothing. Paparazzi nonsense. He was visiting Sua. She visits my place while I'm filming," He tossed the phone back onto the couch like it had burned him. "They see a blonde guy in a beanie and their collective IQ drops into the negatives."
Till knew this. He knew. Sua, Ivan's fiercely protective sister and former Eclipse manager, was a constant, welcome presence.
And Luka, he was the ghost at their feast. The lingering scent of a perfume that hadn't been sprayed in years.
Eclipse. The idol unit that had taken Asia by storm. Ivan, Luka, and a third member who’d left early on. They’d been a phenomenon. Ivan the intense, brooding visual, Luka the ethereal, blonde vocalist with a whisper-soft voice and a smile that launched a thousand fanfictions. Their on-stage chemistry was so potent, so charged with unspoken tension, that the "Are they or aren't they?" rumors became a foundational part of their brand. They never confirmed. They never denied. They just let the speculation fuel their rise.
And then, two years ago, at the absolute peak of their fame, they’d disbanded. Abruptly.
Messily.
A single press release citing "irreconcilable creative differences." The internet had imploded. Conspiracy theories ran rampant.
Had there been a fight?
A scandal? A heartbreak?
Ivan never talked about it. The subject was a landmine. All Till had were the tabloid headlines and the haunted look that sometimes flickered in Ivan's eyes when Luka's name came up.
"Hey," Till's voice was gruff. He nudged Ivan's shoulder again, harder this time. "Forget it. I don't care."
Ivan finally looked up at him, the mannequin smile softening into something more real, more tired. "I know you don't," He reached up, his fingers—long, pale, always slightly cold—brushing against Till's jaw. "It's just... exhausting. That chapter is closed. Buried. I'm... I'm here. With you. In your terribly fashionable holey pants."
Till captured his hand, lacing their fingers together. "Damn right you are," He leaned down, intending to seal the statement with a kiss, to push the ghost of Luka out of the room.
Ivan's own phone vibrated on the floor, skittering across the polished concrete. The caller ID flashed on the screen, LUKA.
The moment shattered.
Ivan sighed, a world-weary sound that seemed too heavy for his 22 years of living. He squeezed Till's hand once before letting go and grabbing the phone. "Yeah?... Hi... No, it's fine... I saw. Yeah, Sua told me. They're vultures... What? Now?"
Ivan sat up, running his free hand through his hair, thoroughly ruining the perfect waves. Till felt a petty surge of satisfaction. "On set? I don't know if that's... He's what?"
Till watched, his earlier fondness turning into a familiar anxiety. He could only hear one side of the conversation, but Ivan's body language was a script in itself. The tense shoulders, the slight frown, the way his eyes darted toward Till and then away, guilty.
"...Fine. Yeah. Okay. See you then," Ivan ended the call and dropped the phone onto the couch. He didn't look at Till.
"...Well?" Till finally prompted when the silence stretched too long.
"Luka's... doing a favor for a friend. Photoshoot. At the studio. Tomorrow," Ivan's words were clipped. "He heard we were doing the wirework rehearsal for the finale. Wants to... stop by. Say hi."
Till stared at him. "Stop by. On a closed set meant for dangerous stunts. Just to say hi."
"I know," Ivan finally met his gaze, and his eyes were pleading. "It's just... it's easier to say yes. He can be... persistent. And it's been a while. Maybe it's good. Closure. Professional closure."
Closure.
Everything in Till screamed that this was a spectacularly bad idea. That Luka's "persistence" was a calculated move. That "closure" was a myth peddled by therapists and bad movies. That having the living, breathing embodiment of Ivan's rumored past waltz onto the set of his present was a disaster waiting to happen.
But the look on Ivan's face—a tangled mess of residual annoyance, old affection, and a desperate desire to just make everything easy—stopped him.
"Whatever," Till grumbled, looking back at his script. "Just tell him not to get in the way."
He felt Ivan's relieved smile more than he saw it. "He won't. Thank you," Ivan leaned over, pressing a quick, grateful kiss to his cheek before settling back against his thigh. The moment was supposed to be reset.
But the silence that returned to the room was different now.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈⊹
The soundstage was filled with shouted instructions, whirring motors, and the scent of sweat and ozone. Till and ivan were above the ground, suspended on nearly invisible wires for a stunt take.
This was supposedly the last action scene they’d do after they kill Till’s character off for good. The final showdown. The Captain versus the Emissary. Till, was dressed in tattered armor covered with fake-blood splattered across his neck, and Ivan, in his dark robe that fluttered every time they set the fan to have it move dramatically.
The stunt coordinator's voice echoed from below. "Alright, boys! Remember, it's a fight! Ivan, you dip under his swing—yes, just like that!—then spin, use the momentum! Till, you block high, he goes low! Look angry! You hate this guy! He's trying to steal your ship and your favorite... I dunno, space hamster!"
“A hamster?” Till couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
Ivan laughed at the reaction, a slight show and sound that was swallowed by the vastness of the stage.
"Focus, you idiots!" the coordinator yelled, but he was laughing too.
This was the part Till secretly loved. The physicality of it. The trust.
The way he and Ivan acted on set together, a perfectly matched set of opposites. Ivan made him feel light, capable, even strung up twenty feet in the air.
"Ready?" Ivan called over, his face alight with a gentle smile that was entirely at odds with his sinister character. "The big disarming move?"
"Just don't drop me, or else," Till grumbled, adjusting his grip on the prop blaster.
"Never," Ivan said, and for a breathtaking second, his smile was just for Till. No camera was rolling. This wasn't for the film. It was a promise, whispered across the gulf between them.
The coordinator yelled, "Action!"
The sequence was smooth. Ivan moved under Till's swing. He caught Till's wrist, twisted, and the prop blaster went spinning from his grip, clattering to the mats below. The script called for Ivan to now deliver a final, triumphant line.
But the dark haired man, high on adrenaline and the joy of the moment, decided to improvise. He pulled Till closer, their harnesses clicking together as he aims his prop weapon at Till's face.
It was ridiculous. It was so Ivan. But that was the Ivan he knew behind closed doors.
And then he winked. For the camera or for Till, he doesn't know.
Till, completely unprepared for the force of how adorable and ridiculous he was breaking through the scene, did the only thing he could. He broke character.
A stupid snort of laughter he hated escaped him. He shoved at Ivan's shoulder playfully. "You're the worst."
Ivan's grin widened. He released his hold, pretending to be thrown off-balance by the light shove.
And that's when it happened. His boot caught on the loop of his own wire. His eyes went wide with genuine surprise. The spin became a lurch, then a uncontrolled stumble.
"IVAN!" Till yelled, his laughter dying in his throat.
Ivan pitched backward. The safety harness was shaking him violently. He swung, hard and fast, directly toward a faux-stone wall—a hard wall nonetheless.
The crack of his head connecting with the plaster was the loudest sound Till had ever heard.
Ivan hung limply. A trickle of red, shockingly vivid, traced a path from his hairline down his temple, stark against his paper-white skin.
Till could only stare, suspended, his heart a racing and pounding mess. The world narrowed to that single point.
Ivan. Motionless. Bleeding.
Chaos erupted. Voices shouting. Motors whining. Till's feet hit the mats, his legs buckling. He stumbled forward as medics and crew swarmed Ivan.
Pushed to the periphery. Just another concerned co-star. He saw them lower Ivan to the ground, saw a medic shine a light into his unseeing eyes.
And then, saw him. Luka.
Standing perfectly still at the edge of the soundstage. Arrived just in time. His hands were clasped, his expression one of concern. But his eyes, a pale, icy yellow, were fixed on Ivan with an intensity that made Till's blood run cold.
It felt like an omen.
BREAKING: IDOL-ACTOR IVAN FALLS OFF SET, TRANSFERRED TO PRIVATE HOSPITAL
posted by LICO Entertainment just now
The room smelled strongly of antiseptic.
Ivan looked small in the standard-issue bed, a stark white bandage wrapped around his head. The energy that was usually around him was gone, leaving just a terrifying stillness. The doctors had called it a severe concussion. They’d said he’d be disoriented. They’d said memory loss was possible, but usually temporary.
Till stood in the corner, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as Sua hovered by the bedside, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice a low, furious stream of Korean as she managed the PR nightmare.
A soft groan came from the bed. Ivan’s eyelids fluttered. Then they opened.
Till’s breath hitched. He took an involuntary step forward. Ivan.
Those dark eyes, usually so sharp and burning with red, were cloudy with confusion. They blinked slowly, taking in the sterile white ceiling, the IV drip in his arm. They landed on Sua, and a flicker of recognition eased some of the panic in his face.
"Sua...?" His voice was a dry rasp.
"Hey, idiot," Sua said, her own voice thick with relief. She reached for his hand. "You gave us a scare. Don't ever do that again."
Ivan managed a weak smile. "Noted," His gaze drifted past her, scanning the room. It swept over Till without a flicker of recognition, a casual, polite glance for a stranger, before landing on the other figure who had quietly entered through the door.
He just fucking skimmed over him. Till could only gawk at what was happening.
Luka offered a small, hesitant smile. A rather calculated one from where Till is standing.
Ivan’s eyes locked onto him. And everything changed. The confusion in his face melted away, replaced by a heart-wrenching wave of raw, unfiltered emotion. His lips trembled. His eyes, still hazy with pain and medication, filled with a desperate, aching hope.
"Luka...?" he whispered, the name a prayer. A question. A sob trapped in a single syllable. "You... you came. You're here."
He tried to push himself up, wincing. "Does this... does this mean we can talk? About... about us?"
‘What about your literal partner standing a mere 5 feet from your bedside?’ Till had wanted to ask while smacking the living daylights out of the dark-haired man.
This is absolutely not happening.
He saw Luka’s eyes widen in genuine surprise for a fraction of a second before the most masterful performance of his life slid into place. His expression softened into one of tragic tenderness. He moved to the bedside, gently taking the hand Sua had released.
"Shhh, Vanya," Luka murmured, voice like silk. He brushed a strand of hair from Ivan's forehead, his touch lingering.
“Luka…” Ivan had rasped out.
"Don't try to talk. I'm here. Of course I'm here." It was a masterpiece of ambiguity. It confirmed nothing. It promised everything.
Ivan sank back into the pillows, he looked… relieved. Saved. He’d woken up in a strange, scary place, and the person his fractured mind had latched onto, the person he wanted to be there, was Luka.
Sua was staring. In disbelief herself. Her eyes shot to Till, wide with alarm.
It was the look that broke the his own shock. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. In that moment, faced with the devastation on Ivan's face and Luka's terrifyingly perfect performance, the truth felt like a weapon. A cruel, brutal fact to drop on a wounded man who seems to have lost a part of his life.
It’s two choices really. To tell or not to tell.
Luka looked over Ivan's head, his pale eyes meeting Till's teal ones. There was no triumph there, not yet. Just a cool, calculating curiosity. A raised eyebrow, as if to say, ‘Well? What's your move?’
Ivan’s gaze, hazy but curious, finally drifted back to Till. "Who's...?" he began, his voice weak.
Till’s mouth was desert-dry. His heart felt like a stone pounding violently at his chest. He forced his voice to work, layering it with a professionalism so thin it was practically transparent.
"I'm Till," he said, the name tasting like ash. He waits for his name to register. To click on Ivan’s big stupid head.
There was nothing. No familiar smile. No snarky joke. Nothing. He doesn’t recognize him.
So… he backtracked. Like an Idiot.
"Your co-star. Senior. And... your friend. We were filming together when you had your accident."
The lie settled between them, vast and terrible.
Ivan offered a small, polite, painfully distant smile. The kind you give to a kind stranger. "Oh. It's an honor to work with you, sir. I'm sorry for the trouble."
He just... called him Sir. Was he going deaf? Till could only nod, his throat locked. He had just been demoted. Erased. He was now a respected colleague. A footnote.
And Luka, still holding Ivan's hand, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn't kind. He was wearing the smile of a gambler who’d just been dealt a perfect, unbeatable hand.
The game is on.