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Till couldn't understand it.
For the first time in months, his mind was reduced to a blank slate: silenced by the taste of iodine in his mouth. There was not one thought of Mizi. Not one thought about the audience’s thunderous roars, the mechanical buzzing of the rain machines or the guards robotically calling for clean up. He watched as the blood spread: slow and imminent. He fixed his eyes to the source.
Ivan. Someone he thought was just an annoying acquaintance quickly turned into his lover, his enemy—his killer in a matter of moments.
He stares and stares until the sight burns into his retinas: A groom shrouded in white lying drenched in his own blood and soon married to God.
His eyes flicker to Ivan’s face. Till can't remember the last time he has seen Ivan. Really looked into those dark, nearly soulless eyes and knew the person he was. Each time their eyes met, there was an unidentifiable message within Ivan’s gaze. Till always thought it was some underlying patronization—condescending pity you’d give to a helpless lost dog—, maybe a warning of things yet to come or some other mix of ominous threats shrouded in unnerving silence. But now, he sees it.
It was love. The kind of love that hides within playful banter. The kind of love that forces you to watch from afar while everything you do goes unnoticed. The twisted kind of love that sends you over the edge, willing to do anything to get your beloved to look your way even if it hurts someone.The painful kind of love that eats you from the inside out as your mind begs you to let go but your heart fights so fiercely for. The heavy; agonizing kind of love that wills you to embrace an anchor on a sinking ship. The kind of love Till held for Mizi.
The kind of love Ivan died for.
Ivan was never his enemy nor his killer; Till was. He was his own enemy. Going into the round, there was only one thing on his mind: Mizi. Longing to be with his sun, he would aim for the sky with his lips shut in holy devotion and await death—the only salvation he had. Till had given up long before he ever stepped on that stage, dooming him to an empty fate. His flame, once proud and rebellious, became a damp, pathetic spark. He knew it well. And so did Ivan.
Till was a flame. Ivan was a candle. Ivan burned quietly as Till’s fire raged, growing higher as he sought the eternal sun. Watching, the candle sat and burned. Burned until he was a pile of wax and a wick. Gone and done, his purpose was fulfilled as he hit the floor lifeless. The flame is still there, burning ever so faint. He can barely remember how long the candle has been there or what it's done all this time. Yet, he senses its presence everywhere as the scent lingers. It lingers and lingers until he can hardly think about anything else.
Till’s hand unconsciously reaches for his neck: the last of Ivan’s warmth. He digs his nails into his skin. It wasn't strong enough to draw blood but he wishes it was. He doesn't realize it but he so desperately wanted a reminder, a warning, a memory of Ivan. The sensation of lips so passionately dancing with his incinerates every part of him. The rain comes to extinguish his fire, feeling like bullets on his skin. Moments before the light snaps off and Till loses sight of Ivan forever, a reflection of Till's win is etched into his pool of blood.
A candle to a flame. A martyr to a lost sinner. A groom wedded to God as a widow rots.
Till understands.