Chapter Text
The first time Bojan Cvjetićanin kisses a boy, he's 15 years old and angry as fuck.
There's just something about Kris Guštin, you know? From the first time he offered Bojan advice, unasked for, the guy has been getting under Bojan's skin. There's absolutely no reason for them to interact as much as they do, but it seems like every time Apokalipsa is practicing in the band room, Kris is somewhere nearby, popping his head in to offer suggestions and critiques, his hair falling into his eyes as he nods or shakes his head, color high on his cheekbones and a deadly serious expression on his face. Kris has that gangly look of someone whose body hasn't quite decided to be tall yet, and he's scrawny as hell, and despite the musical legacy, Bojan can't quite take him seriously.
Then, when Apokalipsa actually starts getting gigs, whenever they're playing somewhere, Kris is there in the crowd, watching Bojan, his eyes dark and his expression grim. He doesn't stay afterwards to chat, not that Bojan would have chatted him up anyway, but he's always. Fucking. There.
Bojan complains to Martin about it once, but all Martin does is look at Bojan like he's gone insane.
"How do you even notice that he's there all the time?" Martin asks. "With the lights and the performance and all the people in the audience I don't think I've ever noticed a single individual person who has come to our shows. I don't even think I noticed my parents at our first gig, I was so nervous."
Bojan flushes with anger. "The guy is poking his head in our rehearsals constantly, Martin, how do you NOT notice?"
"I mean," Martin says. "He'd probably leave you alone if you stopped rising to his bait."
Now that's just unfair. "Rising- He's the one who won't let things drop, did you hear what he said about our last song?"
Martin raises his eyebrows. "I think you're thinking about this too much, Bojan. Something you want to tell me?"
To which Bojan suddenly and extremely maturely storms out of the practice room.
Anyway. Bojan figures that turnabout is fair play, so the next time he sees that Buržuazija has a gig, he makes sure to attend. He lurks in the back row, not wanting to be seen. When the show starts, he has to admit, Buržuazija is pretty good - Kris is pretty good. On stage he transforms from a gangly teenager to a rock star, playing off the other guitarist, Jan Peteh, and interacting with the audience like a pro. Bojan catches himself staring, just like Kris does to him at Apokalipsa's gigs. Since when had the guitarist gotten so tall. And - was he growing his hair out? It looked unfairly good on him, sticking out over his ears like that.
Bojan waits outside the venue after the show, and when Kris exits, he calls out, "Guštin!" Kris turns to see Bojan there, and looks surprised.
"Bojan Cvjetićanin!" Kris says, eyes lighting up in challenge. "Come to see me perform? Just couldn't stay away, eh?"
Bojan's ears burn. He walks over to Kris, trying to look as uninterested as possible. "You wish," he says.
"I do wish," Kris says, and Bojan blinks in surprise. This is so far removed from the nerdy, perfectionist geek that keeps poking his head into Bojan's rehearsals to correct him. This Kris has fire in his eyes and a teasing smirk.
Somehow that just makes Bojan more irritated. "Maybe I just wanted to see how someone with such wrong musical opinions could possibly have a successful band," he says.
"I don't think so," Kris says, stepping closer to Bojan and getting right in his face. "I think you came to see me. Me, personally. And I bet you were impressed."
Something in Bojan's brain fritzes at that, fuzzing out like an old TV set. Kris's eyes are laser focused on him, and his hair is damp from a post-show shower, and Bojan thinks that Kris is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life.
Bojan crashes their lips together, uncoordinated. He can feel Kris's surprise through his lips, but then Kris starts kissing him back, hungry. When Bojan pulls back for a breath, Kris surges forward, kissing him again, sliding their lips over each other, making sparks fly all over in Bojan's skull, pinging off the edges and ricocheting around.
Kris's fingers are at the back of Bojan's neck, running through his hair, and Bojan startles at that, pulling back from Kris in shock. Kris is looking at Bojan through hazy eyes, his lips red and spit-slicked, and Bojan feels a shudder run down his spine.
"I- I uh-" Bojan says, and then he turns around and runs as fast as he can to his bus stop, breathing heavily the whole way.
He spends the bus ride home trying to put what just happened into a sensible box in his brain. Bojan doesn't like boys. Bojan likes girls. Bojan has never wanted to kiss a boy, and if he ever had, he certainly wouldn't be wanting to kiss Kris Guštin. He would probably want to kiss any other boy on the planet than Kris Guštin.
Just because Kris has grown at least a foot in the last year, and has those incredibly annoying cheekbones, which are always the first part of his face to show his blush when he's embarrassed, and just because he has an amazing stage presence and is apparently a hell of a guitar player, and okay yeah, Bojan does want to kiss Kris Guštin. A lot.
He takes a deep breath. If the past was any indication, Kris and Bojan would be seeing a lot of each other in the future, so Bojan has a choice to make. He can forget this entire thing happened, or he can think about what kissing a boy, kissing Kris, would mean for Bojan and his identity. He could face this straight on and do some soul searching about maybe other boys he might want to kiss.
His brain shies away from the idea involuntarily. No. Better, much better, to forget. He had been agitated and angry and full of hormones. Stuff happens. It doesn't have to mean anything. Bojan breathes out, reassured. None of it has to mean anything.
A year and a half later, when Apokalipsa breaks up, Kris and Jan ask to form a band with Bojan and Martin, and Bojan says yes.