Chapter Text
Ivan loved you. He knew you felt the same way about him, but sometimes you treated him as though it were the opposite — like you despised his very existence.
Thinking about it left a sour taste in his mouth. Made your long winded conversations about the future seem like empty promises whispered to each other to merely pass the time. Gave your syrupy kisses a bland aftertaste. Made it feel as though an invisible third person was there whenever you hugged him, preventing him from closing that distance which made you two whole. Made him believe that, despite all his love-filled delusions, you nor your heart were his to taint.
There were times where you’d seem as though you were a completely different person. Even before you got together, he’d notice the swift demeanor change whenever he’d ask certain questions or suggest certain things — the way something indescribable would flicker in your widening eyes whenever he’d suggest going over your place, for example. It had always nagged at him, especially since you lived right next door, but the topic of why was never given the chance to be spoken before you’d change the topic with haste.
One time, though, on the night of your one year anniversary, you confessed, “I’ve never been the best at taking care of my home. After my parents….skipped town…it’s been in shambles. The wallpaper in almost every room is peeling, there are cobwebs everywhere and just…” You let out a long sigh, “I- It’s just really unkempt, okay? I never told you because I was too embarrassed..”
At the time he had believed you wholeheartedly. After all, what merit would there be in lying to your boyfriend? Losing his trust? Causing unnecessary arguments? Who would honestly make up such an odd fabrication just to avoid their partner of all people coming to their house in the first place?
..Apparently you.
He wants to believe in you. Believe that you would have no reason to spew falsehoods at him — to hide anything from him — but as he lays here in this plush, neutral toned bed surrounded by stainless, cream-colored walls ( that seemed to have less blemishes than an actual, freshly ripened peach ), wooden furniture that looked as though they had just been bought today, and a semi-matching wood floor — which didn’t seem to have even a follicle of hair one it….he was starting to believe otherwise.
“Ivan!” A loud cry rattled his eardrums — and with only the time to blink owlishly and begin to sit up — he’s suddenly tackled by none other than the love of his life, you.
With a soft thud, his raven hair hits the plump pillow behind him as the vanilla scent of that over-priced shampoo he got you last week invaded his nostrils. He feels your arms snaking around him. Feels your warmth on his bare skin that his short-sleeve failed to cover. And as he takes everything in, he finds himself faltering — melting — in your grasp just like he always did.
Through some slither of will and a small yearning to satiate his curiosity, he manages to snap from the spell you unknowingly put him under and his tongue rolls like lumber in his mouth as he whispers your name like a prayer, “Y/n..”
But unlike how long it took for that motivation to build, it immediately crumbled to the ground as soon as he heard the thin, sharp gasp you let out and felt the tremble of your limbs against him.
“Are you…?” He trailed off with almost uneasiness swallowing his tone — as if saying the words aloud would call them to fruition. Not that mere words would stop your heart from clenching in on itself or the tears to stop building in your eyes, but he could dream.
“Ivan…” Your weeps felt like a knife had been jammed into his ears and it hurt like hell. Pained him way more than any cut or bruise he’s ever gotten in his life. It was as if your tears were a bunch of bullets, falling and piercing every spot that they splashed on and stained with its translucence — and in a way, it almost made him want to crumble alongside you.
Of course, he doesn’t dare do so. To burden you in such a way ( and when you’re already clearly upset ) would be cruel of him to do. Instead, he decides to wrap his large, slightly toned arms around you. Let his hands find place on your back and in your hair, and sat up to give you some much needed air.
You choked on your own sobs, let slurred incoherencies fall from your lips and drench the fibers of his shirt, and wailed so hard that he was sure you’d have a migraine afterwards. It was truly a bewildering sight to see you, who’s usually so unwaveringly cheerful, be so…torn up, and quite frankly, he had no idea how to deal with it.
That said, he couldn’t simply sit there like a bump on a log, right? Some in your shoes would want to be comforted, maybe held and shushed. Possibly told that everything will be okay…right? Would it be more effective to give you space? Some people prefer that over coddling — some of your mutual friends are prime examples of that.
But what would you like? What would make you feel as warm as he felt moments ago? The icy calculations of his brain couldn’t come up with a combination suitable fast enough and your tears were still like an overflowing waterfall..
…So he did what he did best and fell back on old habits — ones he swore to himself he’d never look back on. Ones that almost fated him to a life where he’d be forced to face his miserable mundanities all alone. Ones that almost subjected him to a life without your soft touches and your tender kisses or sights like your delicate flesh covered in bite marks and light bruises. Ones that almost prevented him from confessing to you that day on your walk home from school.
He stays silent. Not allowing a comforting word or positive affirmation to slip past his lips as he instead allows you the moment to splatter your wounded heart — and your bleeding feelings — all over him.
He gives you the stage to perform all on your own, hands you the mic to pour your everything out all over it, and when you finally pull away and give it back to him, he still waits for you to speak first.
“I’m… I- I’m sorry…” You mumble. Your voice sounds so small as it reels from the aftereffects of your sudden breakdown. Ivan doesn’t reassure you or tell you that it’s okay to cry. Instead he asks, “What happened?”
To which you respond, “Nothing.. I’m just.. I’m just glad you're okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” He immediately pushes out, and again, he sees something reflecting off your tear-stricken hues — something bright like a comet soaring along the sky midday before flickering and diminishing like a candle out of wax to burn as your eyes seem to frown at him.
“What’s wrong?” He speaks in a hushed tone, eyes narrowing in a way that could easily be mistaken in a hostile way. Hopefully you didn’t take it that way. That you’re aware that he’d rather harm himself ten times over than lay a hand to you or spew harmful insults, but from the way your eyes dart away — as if you were trying to escape his piercing gaze — tells him that you have no clue of the power you hold over him.
“I- It’s nothing,” You tell him in the end, and your arms pull away to form a physical wall between your souls as you fold your hands over the center of your chest — your heart — like you were scared he’d somehow read the congruent pattern and find some hidden message that’d prove your statement a lie. You then push the point and add, “Nothing at all…”
And instead of pressing the topic like he rightfully should in search for answers that he’s longed to know, he yields and holds his tongue, again, out of old habit. ( Hm, they truly do die hard, don’t they? )
“...I have some clothes for you to wear. I’ll bring them in a bit,” You suddenly say, revealing to him your eyes once again. They’re still tinged a light red, but he decides not to comment on it. More caught up on what you’re saying and the depressing feeling of the cold creeping back up his legs when you decide to stand up and continue, “My bathroom’s also down the hall if you want to freshen up.”
“What’s the occasion?” ‘Why am I suddenly in your house that you forbid me from ever stepping foot in’ probably would’ve been a better question, but Ivan thinks feigning ignorance and going along with…whatever’s happening right now…is a better option. An easier battle to conquer, if you will.
You walk over to the door ( Ivan couldn’t help but notice how your feet seemed to drag against the floor with a slight tremble to your steps ) and pull it open, looking back at him to flash him a smile with too much teeth and eyes that were squeezed shut behind their lids.
“We’re having a dinner date.”
Ivan keeps his lips pursed once more, deciding it best not to point out the fact that your voice cracked with somber at what was supposed to be a cheery exclamation, how tears pricked and protruded from the edge of your lashes, or how you looked so utterly crushed turning away and walking out — almost as if you were about to attend a funeral.
A rich, pungent aroma waltzes throughout the hallway, invading Ivan’s nasal cavity with its odor. It kinda reminded him of the boy’s locker room at school just after it had been cleaned by the janitor — still stinging his nose with the slight tang of sweat and BO that has forever been cemented in the air, yet still pleasant overall thanks to the overpowering smells of the variety of cleaning products they used.
The longer you stood there, the smell would slowly singe your nose until it became unbearable, and yet, Ivan’s feet took their sweet time and paused for seconds between every step, allowing him to ogle at every little thing.
His guesses and class daydreams of what your house may have looked like paled in comparison to the actual thing. You had a love for cute, brightly colored things that you’d see in toy stores and pastels that could be seen in maybe a boutique or bakery, and yet, the closest thing he's seen to that was the peached colored walls of your bedroom that he had awoken in.
Furthermore, instead of cute pictures of fantastical-looking flowers, he’s met with the actual, more toned down thing with ivory serving as the only pop of color along the walls. There were also things that made his eyebrow raise — like the glass displays along the shelf he just passed by that sat in a neat row and were illuminated by thick candles
A crow’s beak in the right one, a paw of an unknown animal in the left… If it weren’t for him spending almost every waking moment memorizing your tics and dislikes — like the fact that you grow sick to the stomach seeing even a dead bird along the road — he would’ve believed that you often passed the time hunting animals.
Maybe they’re just props? Fakes? Waxed figures of the animal? He passes by a small casing with a round ball in it — auburn in color and slitted in a way that reminds him of a cat’s or maybe a fox’s eye — and he chooses to just believe that everything he’s perceiving in the moment is all for show. It’s the only logical explanation in his mind, or rather, the only one he’s willing to entertain. ..I mean, half of these things aren’t even native to their hometown so what else could explain such a bizarre variety?
After what felt like years he finally steps into the kitchen, and immediately, he’s put to a stop by a swift swipe at his pant’s leg. He looks down and a cat sits at his foot, glaring daggers with its emerald gaze. They were a rather pretty sight, Ivan thought. It’s fur especially with such a pristine, gray coat.
He crouches down, his hand reaching out with the intent of giving the cat a quick scratch behind the ears when he’s forced to a stop when the cat bares its claws and swats at his hand.
Ivan’s eyes widened incredulously. Most felines he’s met in his life adore the small action to the point he’s been chased by a few who couldn’t get enough of it. Nevertheless, as the cat raises its paw to give another small swipe his way and a series of sharp hisses as if trying to say, ‘Look, don’t touch’ he comes to the conclusion that this gorgeous furry fritter was not like most cats he knew.
“Till? Where’d you go, buddy?” He hears your voice emanating from further inside, and as if the cat understood you perfectly, its head perked up at the sound of your voice and it immediately ran in that direction. Ivan decides to follow suit as if it were his name called.
It had only been half an hour max since he’s last seen you, but if he were to be so dramatic, it had felt like hours had gone by. He blames the fact that you’re almost always at the forefront of his mind, but the mere minutes it took to shower and change clothes seemed to stretch on and on. He craved to hug you, to simply hold you in his arms or be held in term, or even hold your hand.
Alas, as he finally sets his sights on you and bore witness to yet another cat — this one splayed snugly in your arms — he quickly realizes he’d be able to do none of those things.
The cat that sat perched on your limbs as if they were a throne, quite frankly, looked like a ball of sunshine. Its fur looked as soft as the clouds in the sky outside your kitchen window and was dyed a light yellow tinge that was incredibly easy on the eyes. Not only that, but their hues were peculiar yet heavenly-looking as they lacked the usual threatening slits in them and steadily faded in color, reminding Ivan of a rising sun.
If an angel ever turned into a cat, he wholeheartedly believes they’d look something like that.
Till, despite his earlier aggression, takes small steps up to you in an almost meek way. Furthermore, he doesn’t take to greedily stealing your warmth like the devilish feline in your arms and instead waits for you to crouch down and offer your hand to him, and even then, his touch is careful and light, as if he feared so much as nicking your palm with his sharp nails.
Upon him offering up his paw, you smile down at him in a way that a god would its devout worshipper, and you take the moment to brush your thumb along his nonexistent knuckles as if you were about to lay a kiss there. You don’t, and instead release his paw and reach up to stroke his head.
“I heard hissing. Did you try to attack Ivan, little one?” You ask, fond yet knowingly, like a parent confronting their child after realizing they broke a vase. You then chuckle and add, “You’re going to scare him away at this rate. Then who’s gonna be your new papa?”
Once again, as if he were a person, Till snaps his head up at your comment. His eyes narrow as if he were trying to glare at you, and when he fails to properly project his irritation, he shoots out a nasty snarl and pops your hand — now uncaring if you get scratched or not as he walks off with his whiskers at a downturn. You merely let out another laugh.
“Aw, come on…!” You drawl, your tone beginning to match your widening smile, “Don’t be like that! I was only kidding! …Kinda sorta..”
After failing to earn your kitten’s forgiveness and watching him pass by your lover's feet, your gaze finally rises to peer up at him.
He had planned to try again and this time add his inquiry about the weird trinkets in your hallway and the fact that you had literal fruit growing in your bathroom, but as your smile directs itself his way, he finds himself unable to do anything except reciprocate the action.
“You look nice,” You compliment in a hushed tone as you set the cat in your grasp free. Ivan notes how unwilling they seemed to be about it, even going as far as to reach its little yellow paws out to you as if to beg for you to reconsider, “Getting that sweater was a good idea after all.”
“Thank you,” He says, watching you rise to your feet. He wanted to say something else. Something like, ‘You look even better,’ or ‘This sweater would compliment your eyes more than it did his entire body,’ or even a simple, ‘You’re the gorgeous one here,’ but he digresses.
“What are you making?” He asks, to which you reply, “Kimchi Soup. I know you don’t like all that fatty stuff so I held back on adding a lot of pork.”
In actuality, his guardian has him on a rather strict diet in order to maintain his physique. Of course, if you knew he was practically being starved of one of his more favorable preferences, he doesn’t doubt for a second that you wouldn’t turn it into a big deal and bring him the most meaty dish ever. He’s also aware that if you so much as batted your eyelashes at him, he’d fold instantly and eat the entire thing despite the obvious consequences he’d face later.
You waltzed closer, your arms coming up so that your hands could reach Ivan’s face. He expected for you to pull him in for a kiss or maybe trail your fingertips down his neck, wrap your arms around it, and pull him into a hug. Alas, as your hands cupped itself against his cheek — warmed and slightly sweaty from slaving over the stove — you froze up as if you were touching an ice block.
Your eyes widen and your face contorts into one only someone who’s happened across a dead body would make. You looked like you’d seen a ghost, he thinks, as your face suddenly pales. Terror gleamed like strobe lights in those beautiful eyes of yours and, just as he had begun to notice the slight tremble of your hands, you snatch them away.
“What’s wrong?” He asks in a hast. A stark contrast to his own hands, which slowly inch their way closer to yours.
Your eyes dart down noticing the shift in movement, and as if he was inching a lit candle towards you, you jump back and spin around, blurting out a stammered, “Na- Nothing! It’s– It’s nothing.”
“Th- The soup should be ready by now so I’ll go fix our plates! You should sit down!”
Ivan blinks incredulously, nevertheless he does as you say and walks over to sit at one of the island’s chairs. He didn’t consciously do so, it just…happened. It’s like his body is wired to follow your every wish — your every request, your every demand — no matter how much he wanted to do otherwise.
It doesn’t stop his thoughts from flooding in, however. Everything about this is off from your flip-flopping demeanor to the odd displays in your home to your obvious lies… He tries, but there’s nothing he can think of — besides the reasons he doesn’t want to think of — that gives him an explanation to all of this. It makes no sense. You make no sense.
But really, have you ever? Looking back on it, despite living right next door, he knows almost nothing about you. Of course, there’s the things that he’s learned throughout the years — like your relationship preferences, for example — but aside from that, you’re practically a stranger. It’s like he’s floating atop a bottomless lake and never goes under no matter how hard he tries to drown.
But god does he want to. If the chance were to arise, he’d wish for nothing more than to drown in the ocean that pools in your mind, to suffocate in the flames of your heart, and be consumed by your body. He’d greedily drink in everything about you until there’s nothing left because he’s nothing but a selfish guy wearing a veil of kindness that has carried him up to where he is now. Gifted him with a life he doesn’t deserve filled with friends who are none the wiser and a partner who’s even more oblivious.
And with that in mind, can he really be upset at you for doing a similar thing?
“Here you are,” You said, setting a bowl before him with a clink. He blinks, coming back to reality just as you slide onto the chair beside him.
Before he can say anything, someone else speaks first, their voice loud as they mewl from below. Ivan looks down and notices the angel cat at your feet, looking up at you with those oddly pupilless, drooping eyes of his. It makes him wonder, “Is it blind?”
“Aww Lu Lu, can’t you just give me a little while?” You asked the cat, and just like Till, the yellow cat meows out a response. As if you could understand them, you sigh.
“Evil little… You know I can’t resist when you act like this— C’mere man..” As you coo, you lean down and open your arms and your furry friend eagerly hops into them. You hold him firmly as you reposition, it’s then that you say, “Luka — or Lu Lu as I like to call him — is a sickly little cat. Most people believe the problem is his sight, but he can actually see perfectly fine. It’s his respiratory and immune system that’s the real problem..”
“Hm, is that so..” Ivan doesn’t know what it is, but the timing of your response seemed…purposeful, like you were answering his question that he’s sure he didn’t say aloud. Was he looking too much into it?
..Whatever, just eat the food.
Grabbing his spoon, Ivan hushes out a brief thanks as he scoops up some of the broth and brings it to his lips to give it a quick, gentle blow. The sudden gust causes it to ripple in the ladled spoon, and as it does so, he finds himself staring as he mumbles, “You never told me you owned cats. I thought you were allergic to them.”
Once again, you freeze up, taking a moment before responding — almost as if you were racking your brain for a believable excuse, “O- Oh, um, I guess that’s true… Lu Lu and Till are just strays that I found on my porch a while ago, so.. uh..”
Ivan stares at you, face blank and frustratingly hard to read. You find yourself unable to hold his gaze for long, and in the end, you take refuge in the wall on the other side of you.
“Wh- What is it?” You ask after even more unbearable silence, and as if to punish you, Ivan doesn’t respond immediately, choosing instead to tip his spoon and allow the now lukewarm soup to spill into his mouth.
He rolls his tongue — which tingles in the peppery liquid it swims in — and savors the earthy tang. It’s delicious in a sorta nostalgic way that makes him feel like a little kid again, laughing at something dumb you or one of your mutual friends said as you passed by that old hot pot restaurant that used to sit at the corner of your school’s street. It’s been years since it closed down, but he can still remember the decadence of his favorite order — which tasted pretty similar to this soup — and the conversations he’d have over such a meal which made it all the more wonderful.
“Ivan, what—” “This is really good.”
“Huh?” You let slip, spinning your head around to search Ivan’s face for answers that’ll explain his sudden compliment. Unfortunately, it doesn’t and all you’re met with is the small grin sitting politely on his face.
“The soup,” He clarifies, “It’s good. You’re a great cook.”
Your eyes widened, and at first, you looked as though you just witnessed lightning strike a tree. That look lingers on your face for longer than it should, making the smile on your own face seem out of place. In the end, you close your eyes and force your smile wider, hoping that it’ll seem more positive than your previous reaction.
“O- Oh, thank you,” You say, “This is my first time trying this recipe..” You breathe out a chuckle as your hand flies up to scratch the back of your head, “Actually, I had to restart twice because I messed up the proportions..”
“I would've still eaten your failed attempt,” Ivan confesses, holding a soft ‘I would eat anything you made for me,’ on his tongue.
“I don’t doubt it, but I still wouldn’t want our date night dinner to taste disgusting. It’d ruin the mood,” You retorted, finally gaining the courage to perceive the world again and open your eyes, “Plus, today’s a special occasion! No way would I accept anything other than perfect!”
The more you spoke, your words eventually returned to its usual animated jabber. You hopped from topic to topic — from school incidents that happened last week that for some reason he’s having a hard time recalling to interesting, worthwhile news to juicy gossip he doesn’t care much for — relieving the air of its once tense atmosphere with laughs, exasperated gasps, and honeysuckle exchanges.
Throughout such bliss, Ivan’s eyes caught on a most bewildering sight; your bowl — untouched and untasted. He found it odd, seeming as you’d typically be done with your food before he’s even halfway, so he decides to ask, “Are you not going to eat?”
You pause, mouth agape and your unfinished sentence sitting heavy on your tongue. Your eyes dart over to your bowl and upon seeing the reddish orange broth still meeting the rim of your bowl and the contents of the dish swimming — softened beyond repair — along the horizon-colored brew, your eyes widen.
“I guess I’m just not that hungry..” You said, the chuckle you let slip past your lips awkward and short, “A- Anyways, the soup is no good cold plus the peppers won’t mix well with Till or Lu Lu’s stomach so I’ll just throw it out.”
“Let me—” Ivan goes to say, stepping down from his seat to help when, for whatever reason, his body crumbles under his own weight. His thighs tense and his legs shake and buckle as though he were carrying a thousand pound boulder on his back. He tips forward, nearly falling on top of you when he shoots out to grip the edge of the island countertop to stop himself.
He sees your lips move — probably asking if he’s alright — but it’s muffled and incoherent due to the loud drumming of his heart deafening his ears. What…just happened? For the smallest instant, a crashing wave of dizziness overcame him and his body felt as though it was made of heavy gelatin. His lungs felt empty, like he had just run a ten thousand meter dash, only for air to suddenly gush in which made things worse and even more disoriented. It was truly as though he felt nothing and everything all at once.
“Ivan..” He feels your breath against his ear and it's only then that he’s able to fathom that you’ve put Luka down and were on your feet. Your hands are up to his face again, but this time he doesn’t feel your warmth. He notices your hand ghosting over his cheek out of the corner of his eye as if you were scared of touching him. He finds his chest constricting in on itself at the realization.
“You might’ve eaten too fast or something— C’mon, let's get you to bed,” You suggest and he can do nothing but nod along and allow you to guide him down the forest that was your hallway. He didn’t question why there was suddenly a lollipop-sweet coating taking over the once spicy aftertaste of the soup, more focused on your hand finally intertwining with his so that you can throw his arm around your shoulder. To him, that was far more important.
He doesn't exactly know when, but it doesn’t take long for you to get back to your room — surprising, seeming that he was leaning all his body weight onto you.
..Whatever, just don’t think about it. Focus on what’s important — what’s right beside you.
“Ivan, lay down,” You instructed, and like an obedient dog, he plopped down. His head immediately found purchase in that plush, frilly pillow once again and he wheezes out a breath, suddenly feeling as though a boulder just sat on his chest. When did his body begin to feel so heavy?
Don’t think about it, dear. It’s better not knowing.
He blinks, his eyes darting around. What was that? Was that his voice? It sounded like yours.. Was he hallucinating in his very own head?
“I’ll go and grab some water for you,” You suddenly propose. His eyes darted over to yours. They seem oddly…bright. Not in a happy kind of way but actually shining vibrantly. Was he imagining things or is it just the angle of lighting?
Enough thinking. You should get some sleep.
Sleep. He should…just rest. All these weird illusions are just that, illusions. It’s probably from this sudden fatigue he’s feeling. It’ll have passed by the time he wakes up, surely.
You get up, mumbling incoherencies as you did so. Your one voice sounds as though they’re multiple people in the room, but maybe he’s just hearing his own thoughts mesh with your voice.
Who knows, he’s too tired to figure it out.
Unlike how you’d typically pepper his face and smother him with your lips before you’d depart somewhere, this time you decide to leave one, quick peck on his forehead. Your lips are cold as a frozen milkshake, and as if you were diseased, that freezing sensation spreads like a wildfire down his face and neck, running down his spine and leaving a chill in its wake.
Before long, he was out, not even lasting until you walked out the room. His last sight was his own arm reaching out to your retreating figure for help he was only half aware he needed.
The door closes shut, separating you from the love of your life. You turn in the opposite direction of the kitchen and make it to the end of the hall where you’re met with the plain color of your walls overtaken by vines.
It was an obvious dead end, and yet, you don’t turn to go the other way. Instead, you raise your hand and deliver a sharp, echoing snap. A vibrant luminesce, matching the color of your eyes, appears at your fingernails and rides the trail of veins throughout your body.
It goes down to your feet then backup to connect at your heart and it’s then that the unknown fire dies. Your hand — now alight by an unknown glow — reaches out towards the wall, past the vines, and finally makes contact with the cold wall where the light suddenly extends from your palms.
Like a seed growing in the soil, large cracks form along the walls. You don’t seem at all alarmed by this, watching as it spreads to the top and begins to breach the ceiling before closing your eyes.
The next time you open your eyes, the smell of old books and herbs had begun to invade your nostrils, chasing away the scents of home faster than oncoming traffic would a cat.
The smell was strong enough to make eyes well up with tears and throats to feel as though a million fire ants had scurried up and down it, any yet, having long since familiarized yourself with the potent odor — and having smelt worse things — you don’t shy away and instead waltz further inside the strange room.
Colorful liquids contained in glass varying in all kinds of odd shapes lined the wooden tables you passed. Each and every one of them gave off a distinct smells which meshed into a singular, potent odor capable of easily overwhelming a person. Kind of like walking into a freshly cleaned bathroom after someone made the horrid mistake of leaving the door closed.
All that’s to say that, to you, who’s nose had long since numbed over, it did nothing more than leave an annoying smell to linger and burn at the back of your throat like an unscratched scab.
You make it to a spiraling staircase and quickly start making your way up. The steps creak under your foot, whining from its age, but you pay it no mind as you ascend with haste. You make it to the top where two desks stand surrounded by more bookshelves as well as various pots and connected vials that weave around the room.
A cauldron sits beside the desk closest to you, already filled to the brim with a murky, bubbling substance whilst a raven makes a racket from above, sitting motionless and trapped behind thin, steel bars that’s connected to a chain that stretches up into the cosmos your roofless ceiling allows in. From the right angle, one may assume the clouds were holding the end of the chain out of sight and to that you’d say that they weren’t entirely wrong.
You make it up to your desk — cluttered by odd contraptions, unfinished potions, and frantically-scribbled notes — where you, again, snap your fingers. As if the sky had descended down upon you, the pale purple, puffy clouds suddenly came pouring into the room like poison. It immediately covers everything, blinding you to what’s happening as it swirls around with the wind speed of a hurling tornado. You stand your ground, still and unshaken, until eventually the clouds fade to reveal…your boyfriend Ivan.
Or rather, his body.
He lays in the middle of the room, right under the limelight of the cosmos as if he always belonged there. His eyes remain closed and he lays with his arms politely folded across his stomach like sleeping beauty despite his attire being more suited to fit a prince. It seemed as though he was sleeping on air.
Your footsteps come in slow, almost hesitant intervals, but you eventually make it up to him. You stare on, taking in every detail of his face from his slicked back hair to his short, curled lashes to his pale, smooth skin. He truly did seem like royalty, you thought as you finally reached your hand out…only to abruptly stop.
It wasn’t by choice that your hand halted a mere few inches away from your beloved’s face. It was like some invisible force field was in place, preventing you from doing so much as penetrating his personal bubble...is what you’d like to muse to yourself. Alas, light shatters that illusion fairly quickly, revealing that instead of some mystical barrier, it was just seamless glass surrounding him.
This deceptive sheet that blocked you from the one you cherished most seemed to contort and bend in a peculiar shape to form a box around him, or if you were to be so grim, a coffin.
“Ivan…” You called out to him, part of you wishing that through some miracle he’d open his eyes and respond back to you, but alas, reality knocks you in the face once again and silence is the only response you earn.
“You shouldn’t talk to the dead. It’ll give people the wrong idea.”
You spin your head around, eyes darting over to the archway where you then lower your gaze. Your angelic feline, Luka, sits at the steps with his droopy eyes boring into yours. Your lips dip at the sight of him and you promptly turn your back once again.
“He’s not dead, but make another comment like that and you will be,” You snap. Your words doused in venom, a stark contrast to the soft tone you previously spoke to him in during dinner. That said, it doesn’t seem to invoke the least bit of fear in him — which is further proven to you when he doesn’t flinch or sink away in terror and takes little caution in waltzing up to you.
“I still think you should let him go,” He chirps, being so bold as to nuzzle against your ankle afterwards, “I mean it’s not like this is your problem. It’s not your fault he—”
“Luka, shut up,” A voice cuts in, cool yet sharpened like an animal’s fangs. You turn around once again and this time you're met with the familiar emerald hues of your other cat, Till, but they’re no longer as bright nor do they possess the dagger-like slits in them — though you suppose that’s to be expected from the human form he’s now taken on.
“Are you here to mock me too?” You shot out, your voice dipping somberly as you took your eyes off the grey-haired male and brought them back to the raven-haired one laying before you.
“Never,” Till muttered, but then he added, “But I am here to scold you for that dumbass trick you pulled earlier.”
“What trick?” You ask, feigning ignorance as you finally find the strength in you to walk past the coffin and up to the table in the far back of the room.
A large book lays at an upright slant, showing off its dingy pages and indescribable writing for all to see. Luka seems to frown at the friction lost and decides to go up to Till, who doesn’t spare him a glance even when he tickles his calf with his tail.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Till snaps, stepping forward, “Do you know how badly that could’ve gone if you accidentally drugged yourself?!”
“I couldn’t risk him growing suspicious,” You said dully, “Plus I would’ve handled it if that happened.”
“By what? Using your powers right in front of him?” Till argues before letting out a sigh — one that’s escaped him countless times in the past for various reasons concerning either you or Luka.
“Look, all I’m saying is that you should’ve just spiked his bowl.”
“The potion I brewed ended up changing the color of the soup. I couldn’t just set them down and act oblivious — Ivan would’ve figured me out immediately.”
“Yeah, because he’d totally figure out that you’re a witch from some fucking soup,” Till said flatly, you could practically hear the eye roll that chased after his words.
“I can’t take the chance. I have other things to worry about..” You simply said, and you hoped that it was obvious in your tone of voice or the way you gave up using words towards the end of your sentence that you wished to drop the conversation.
Thankfully, ever so observant in everything you, Till acquiesces, “Whatever.. I still think that was stupid and risky..”
“What’s stupid is your persistence in trying to change what’s inevitable,” Luka quips, reminding you of his ever so irritating presence. Part of you wished he was an actual cat so that you couldn’t understand him.
“He blew himself to bits. Not our problem and certainly not yours,” He continues, and it’s then that Till butts in again, looking down at him scornfully.
“Luka,” He says in a warning tone, but Luka pays him no mind. Suddenly, the clouds drop into the room again to pay another visit, this time going to surround Luka alone.
They swirl around him for a moment like a mini tornado, eventually rising up to Till’s face before trailing back up into the galaxy above, revealing that the cat was no more.
Instead of stubby paws, slender hands dyed an unnatural purple at the fingertips were left in their wake just as fluffy ears were replaced with golden locks of curly hair. His cat body ceased to exist as he took on a more human-like body — one with not much meat to it compared to Till’s and was shorter in stature as well. His eyes matched his lashes in the same light yellow hue his fur was and the fogginess of them matched that of what made his cat form look so odd; pupiless and empty— as if space had become starless and stained white.
He takes wide steps towards you, making it up to you in a matter of seconds where he then cages you in the silk he now wears. His now whiskerless cheek brushes against the shell of your ear before an icy chill numbs it over and his lips make brief contact when he whispers in your ear.
“All this pain you’re experiencing is undeserved,” He whines softly, almost sultry. It’s what you’d imagine the devil to sound like, “Not only that, but messing with life and death is forbidden. Even if you managed to save him, you would have hell to pay later.”
His words felt like excess oil fueling your brain. All he’s saying are things the rational side of your brain has told you already. You knew the risk. Knew the trials it would take and the consequences you’d no doubt face after your wish is achieved. You were aware how, rightfully, unforgiving the council would be towards you despite your reason. Even so… Even so…
“Do you expect me to just…let him die?” You asked aloud, your voice suddenly weak and beginning to crack like an out of tune string on a harp, “Do you expect me to just…go about my day when my curse brought about his last breath?”
“He didn’t listen to your very clear warnings,” Luka argued, “In my eyes, no one’s to blame but him.”
In a way, he’s right. You had forbidden Ivan from coming to your home and, though you never gave him an exact reason why, you always stressed the boundary.
At the same time, if you hadn’t been so selfish — been so caught up in the whimsical feelings he brought on and the fear of losing it — he would’ve never gotten caught up in this mess. Your mess. The same mess that your grandmother so ruthlessly gave you. The same one which killed your parents and forced you to age a decade in mere seconds in order to survive.
How ironic that the original purpose of this mess — this invisible, mana-induced barrier that surrounded your home and prevented non-magical beings to enter or escape — was made with the intent of protecting the wellbeing of those inside it.
You hadn’t been aware of it until you felt the cool air touch your back that Luka was no longer clinging to you and that the roles had been reversed, with you latching onto him for dear life with trembling hands. Not with anger, but with the pure agony you had been feeling for so, so long.
“Wh- What else am I supposed to do..?” You found yourself asking as you finally grasped the warmth pooling down your face.
“I- I… I love him, Luka.. I.. I love the way his snaggletooth pokes out when he smiles. I..love the way his eyes light up — as though the sun of his world finally came to shine upon him — whenever he sees me. I- I love how warm his hugs are and how cool his kisses can be. I love the puppy look he gives me whenever I leave an- and the way he scribbles his notes in this fancy half-cursive I can barely decipher and the way he tries to play things off when something bothers or surprises him or- or…!”
It didn’t take long, but eventually your tearful prattle was reduced to agonizing drivel as everything came at you at once. Your first encounter, first impression of him in third period, the playful chatter spewed during lunch break, the moment you two confessed to each other, your first date, your first kiss, his body in pieces like a deli platter on the trail leading up to your front door—
You were nauseous, but could do nothing besides throw up body-wracking sobs and incomprehensible garble into Luka’s chest, leaving the man to stare on in shock at what his once unshakable master had been reduced to before his eyes.
At the sight of his bewildered state, Till acts fast, his pace brisk as he walks up to the two of you and rips your sobbing form from Luka’s now loose embrace.
“You’ve really done it now, asshat,” He snaps, “I’m—”
“Don’t,” You mumbled sharply, and thankfully, Till hears you and pauses, looking down at you. Luka does too, eyes still slightly widened as he struggles to reel from the last minute or so that had passed.
“...Can.. C- Can you two just––” You begin, tone soft yet trembled and caved to chokes in between every other word. You pause, taking a moment to let it subside a bit before continuing, “..can you guys just..please leave?” You ask quietly, and as if you had asked for an animal’s carcass, Luka’s face drops, revealing his obvious distress and surprise.
“What—” He begins, but goes quiet when he suddenly feels Till’s hand on him, gripping down and revealing how much the fabric adds to his arm and how little meat there actually is.
He looks up at him with something unlike him. Something rushing and intense like a fire sparking. Something bitter like a lemon wedge. Something that made his eyebrows, and even his eyes, twitch ever so slightly. Something that Till knew all too well — irritation.
“Yeah, we’ll give you some space,” Till mutters, not breaking eye contact with the blonde, “Snap if you need either of us..”
He drags the shorter male along, ignorant to the almost panicked look that flickers like an extinguishing candle on his face before it drooped into something softer, more pleading, as if he was begging you to reconsider this. You don’t, and instead turn your back to his fleeting figure like some depressed peasant unable to watch their partner who stole bread for them get captured to be executed.
You finally hear their footsteps fade, and it’s only then that you move again. Your footsteps are slower than last time — more lethargic — and it feels as though it takes you ages to get to Ivan’s coffin again despite him laying only a handful of feet away.
You stand before him like a prisoner waiting for your sentence. In a way, you wish that were true because what you’ve done — or, if you were to be so merciful to yourself, what this house has done — deserves to be punished by a thousand swords, a lifetime in chains— something.
It’s unfortunate that it only seemed to gain. Gained your sorrows, your tears, and the nonsensical talks you’d have with his body during your week-long studies. Gained the quick breathes you’d release as thoughts of the worst got to you and the small, whispery begs you’d let fall from your lips as you hoped through some miracle that this was all some long dream you’d soon awaken from. Gained your frustrated huffs and the clinking and shattering of tubes hitting the ground whenever you finally let your anger get the best of you over another one of your little experiments, quite literally, blowing up in your face.
You deserve nothing and yet you gained so much. In a way, that in itself is the greatest punishment you could’ve ever received.
You step closer, leaning over the glass once again as your hands find place at the top where his hair resides. Thanks to his oblivious spirit that slumbers in your bed at the moment, you can guess that even within this fancy prison, he still remains in mint condition. You can guess that his hair is still as soft as a domesticated animal’s fur. That the skin you’re unable to see at this angle remains unblemished and tender despite its unnervingly cool temperature.
It’s the perfect home for his spirit to return to once you figure out its means of transportation back…if you can create one, that is. There’s also the matter of gluing his body back together..
You’ll figure it out. You always do. You’ll come up with something and everything will go back to normal. You’ll be able to return to the normal, mundane life you built for yourself. You’ll go back to being known as Y/n, the excitable senior who has trouble staying awake in class instead of Y/n, grandkid of one of the most powerful mages to ever roam the mortal realm.
“Sleep well for now, my love..” You murmur, leaning down to pepper the glass in light kisses you forgot to give his spirit before you departed to come here — you’ll make up for it when you get back, you decided.
You back away from his coffin at last, walking past him once again and back up to your desk. You reach for the already open book splayed along the wood and immediately go to flipping pages. Your eyes scan the contents of each page for a brief moment, looking for something specific when, at last, you find what you need; a recipe for a spirit-solidifying potion.
“It’s not the best, but it should work longer than the last one…” You mutter aloud, a habit you picked up since hell first arose, “Nothing personal, babe, but kissing air isn’t the easiest thing to do.”
You raise your finger to the top where the crease connects the pages of the book together and take your time as you slowly trail down. As if there were mini scissors beneath your fingertip, the page cuts and cuts until it’s separated from the dingy book altogether and floats in your hands.
You skim the description one more time — ‘To fool the dead into making it feel,’ it read, ever so cryptic.
“This’ll have to do until I can think of something..” Your hands move hastily as you roll the paper in a scroll-like manner before throwing it under your armpit for safekeeping. You go to turn, but as you do your hip bumps the edge of the book that leaned ever so slightly off the desk, causing it to tip far enough to make it fall and flap to the ground.
“Damnit..” You found yourself saying under your breath as you immediately turned back and crouched down. You reach out to grasp at the book, but stop dead in your tracks as bolded words catch your eyes — ‘Life Transfer,’ it read.
You reach for the book again, this time slower and with slight hesitation. You caress the page instead of the hardened cover before lifting it up as you read the words that follow after.
Your throat begins to sting as you gulp back the nerves that suddenly overcame you — the thought that suddenly intruded your head — and in that moment, you found yourself ripping the page out and rolling it up to slide under your arm underneath the other spell.
“Just in case,” You told yourself, “Only as a final resort..”
And before you can have the time to regret it, you close the book, grab it, and stand to your feet where you then toss the book haphazardly onto your desk to collect another week’s worth of dust. Well, more like a day. If this potion fails you, it’s likely you’ll be back sooner than you hope to be. Not to mention your inevitable return to research the topic of reviving the fallen.
And if all else fails? Well it seems that now you may have a plan B. One that’ll solve all your problems and grant your wish at the same time; a punishment high in severity that’ll allow you to properly atone for this crime you’ve committed — the crime of falling in love and not putting in the proper effort to protect it.