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in the other side of the universe, there exists a life in complete rebel to the one ivan is currently in. there is no door to enter this other side, and ivan is only left with the option of gazing from afar.
his eyes wander off to his other copy, this ivan has the hands soaked in gentleness. a manifestation to the soft ache conveyed from his heart, to this beating, ugly thing inside the left portion of his chest. this version of ivan is able to hold his beloved close to his. a comfort to a body and shares its warmth. human warmth is so, so beautiful. he thinks. he wants to ruin that beauty to which his other version currently has.
it goes against to what he builds up of himself. a hug isn’t a hug here because he suffocates the till in this universe. he doesn’t let him breathe, he cages him in his clenched grip. like he’s not enough. like he wants to crawl inside skin and bones and blood. something about this just doesn’t work with the other universe, it’s very different, where in here he finds himself at a tight rope coiling around his figure— other ivan frees himself from this. and he doesn’t have to kneel and worship his beloved or have him beaten up to notice him. he just—exists, till is happy that he exists. he is happy for himself to exist.
it also does not match with what his life currently looks like right now. maybe this universe don’t actually have the basis of existence, its all in his head when he takes up slumber and permitting his body to rest—even as twisted as he is, would let himself respite still— maybe he’s just dreaming. but then again, isn’t a dream the window to other worlds?
other ivan is then seen with other till as they walk off in search of a shade from the sunlight, holding hands and ambling without a care. they settle in shelter underneath a tree. he is looking at his beloved—and ivan, who watches with a growing sense of jealousy behind dull eyes—can admit that this is the only quality he shares with his copy. that these dull colours of black have a sort of special flicker of light with them once he sees till. its soft, very much so. other ivan keeps his hands to himself, and watches other till play his flute in peace.
he wouldn’t do that. he’d probably mess with till just to get a reaction out of him. he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he cannot promise these hands to not betray his wants, he doesn’t understand them in the first place. one moment he wants to free till and then the next he gets the urge to consume him whole. his wants are larger than the body can hold, and he ends up breaking into violent acts of war and ruin. the tip of a glass breaking when water keeps running, crack, crack, crack.
when other ivan suggests they take a nap under the shade, other till stays quiet and makes himself comfortable. he sets his flute beside him, but other ivan pulls his arm and situates it on his shoulders. other till guides his to his broad back, so his hands are creating soft circles there, with the flute sandwiched between them. it's kind of ridiculous; quiet giggles erupt in the tiny space left to themselves. as they lay down, the onlooker, ivan of this world, could only beg to experience such a thing. this is how it should be: manifesting that ache spreading in his heart and not translating it with what he’s been taught at a young age, or what his system had subconsciously drilled him to do.
he could beg, he could dream, he could watch himself under a lens he creates and he could wish: to exist to no one but till. and till could exist to no one but him. for his eyes to soften just the way his callous ones do. for his hands to learn the burden that can be lifted by kindness and gentleness. to taste the honeyed sun and let it linger on his tongue. to live life with his beloved and not just survive with the unforgiving hell living brings.
other till whispers something mildly sweet and coated with a scowl, just to save a few pinches of embarrassment, but absolutely does not hide its affections. other ivan looks at him for longer than a minute, and shorter than forever.
he says something back, something probably sweet which ivan could never catch. his beloved’s beaming eyes close after, sighs in a way that ivan can feel the warmth and relief that he can discern from his calm, almost carefree features. dappled sunlight leaving a mark of tender solitude on his soft skin. his other version places a small kiss to his forehead so chaste it makes ivan want to gag.
they didn’t have to put flowers in each other's mouth. no need for the words to be spoken. all they need is a place where they can quietly exist, no one but each other’s beating heart and mends nothing for there are no scars that need to be healed.
loving till in the form of gentleness heals the heart in and of itself.
apparently, ivan fails to love him how he needs to be loved.
how could he? when he doesn’t know how to give love to himself? to the ruins and wars and greed? how could he?
so ivan shall remain an onlooker to this universe, a wandering ghost to the other side where he cannot reach or touch. where he is not allowed to immerse himself in. where he does not deserve to experience this gentle love just this once in his life.
he will watch and he will listen and he will yearn alone until the shadows of death claim him—no, more like he gets tired and finally deals with it at his own frigid hands, to strip the coverings underneath of nothing but black in him. to reveal his ugly organ that wants to love and be loved.
“please, look at me. you know i exist to nobody but you.” he has so much to say, so much to give, so much and not enough. all loving and not. starved and pleading and dying.
if he could have the time to go back, maybe he could’ve learned to love till and till could’ve taught him how. maybe they could’ve been this other versions of an existing universe and maybe they could have been that.
but even to his own reality, he will never be what he already is. just a ghost that watches over his sorrow he holds so dear to him and forever be in constant longing.
just a ghost that exists solely for his beloved.