The thin walls barely did anything to muffle the chaos outside—the raucous laughter, the clinking of glasses, the occasional off-key singing of a drunk who thought they were part of the show. The scent of sweat, booze, and stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air, clinging to everything like an unshakable ghost.

Till huffed, leaning even closer to the dimly lit mirror. He steadied his hand, dragging the kohl liner along his waterline with practiced precision. His lashes were already impressive, but a little extra effort never hurt. He had an image to uphold, after all.

He wasn’t usually nervous. He thrived on the adrenaline rush of performing. But tonight was different. The usual crowd had doubled—maybe even tripled. People actually cared about their music. The realization sent a mix of pride and pressure through his veins. Maybe this dream of theirs wasn’t as far-fetched as he'd feared.

A soft creak cut through his thoughts, the dressing room door easing open just enough for a familiar face to peek inside. Obsidian-dark hair framed sharp, elegant features, and even in the dim light, Ivan's inky black eyes glowed with a quiet, knowing amusement.

“They’re setting up.” His voice was smooth—cool, like a melody with no wasted notes. “Are you almost ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, one sec,” Till hums, his tongue peeking out, the small bud of his tongue piercing balancing between his lips. His gaze flicked to the mirror again, the reflection of the two of them sparking something nostalgic. This dingy little bar was where they’d first met. It felt like a full-circle moment, but with higher stakes.

Ivan stepped further inside, “I thought I’d find you warming up,” he teased, head tilting, that familiar smirk curling his lips. “This is what you’re worried about?”

Before Till could retort, Ivan leaned down, resting his chin atop Till’s wild mess of hair, a weight both grounding and irritating. He scowled, nudging Ivan away with a half-hearted elbow. “Yeah, well, looking good is part of the performance, too.”