Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hollow. That’s how he feels. Hollow, empty, numb. There’s a spark of something fighting to life within him, fighting to not be extinguished amongst the harrowing anguish that is threatening to consume Till from the inside out. His spark, part of his charm, his recklessness, gone and nonexistent. He was almost nothing but a shell of himself, breaking and fracturing as the events from earlier played over and over in his mind.

Round Six.

He’d been mute since, at least, he thinks he had. Vaguely he remembers a choked sob escaping his lips and the buckling of his legs as he lost all sense of how to stand, how to exist, how not just to look and stare. His eyes unable to be torn away from the bleeding lifeless body of Ivan, dark raven hair plastered to his forehead and crimson seeping into his pristine white suit. Sticky and persistent the puddle of blood grew and soaked Till’s knees, pressed against him as if to say ‘this was you’, ‘this is your fault’, ‘you should’ve been looking’.

He was looking now. He was trapped. He hadn’t stopped looking, even when they’d taken Ivan’s body away Till would close his eyes and there he’d be. Ivan’s smile played like film against the landscape in his brain. His lips tingle with the faint reminder of a kiss, desperate and like a cry for help. Like Ivan had been pleading with Till to look, pleading with whatever God’s remained to trade his life for Tills, pleading for the outcome that had come to be. His smile, haunting, his eyes, alive. Until they weren’t.

Until he wasn’t.

Till lay in his bed, cold sheets pressed against his back as he stared up at the ceiling and even there he saw Ivan. He couldn’t stop seeing him and the loop of time that was his death. He couldn’t stop feeling it against his knees, his fingers. He couldn’t stop hearing it, the ringing in his ears, the sounds of gunshots and screaming. He couldn’t stop his senses from reminding him in more ways than one, the smell of smoke still thick in his airways.

He squeezed his eyes shut willing the image of Ivan’s smile away.

It didn’t work.

It was suffocating, the feeling of being the only one left ran hot through his blood. All the people in his orbit, gone. Mizi, Ivan, and even Sua was there, by association of Mizi. His little orbit, the sun and the stars, the gravitational pull of one to another, their own little solar system. The stars no longer shone for them however and Till was left alone in the darkness, with only his thoughts for company and Ivan’s smile present in his mind.

Quietly, a sob broke free through his lips, chapped and dry. When was the last time he’d drunk any water? Time was passing by strangely, like sand through an hourglass he was losing track of it as it slipped through his fingers and was turned on its head only to confuse him more. What sort of crime had he committed in a previous life? What had he done to deserve this? Nothing could be deserving of this awful fate. Losing everyone, losing himself, feeling time slip through his fingers until his inevitable demise.

His throat was dry, consciously Till tried to swallow and felt a sharp stabbing pain causing him to sit up, holding his arm in front of his face as if that would help him vanquish the image of Ivan from his mind. Water. He’d go get some water, the pitcher and glass sitting on the table on the other side of the room beckoned to him.

Pouring himself a glass of water Till noticed the way his hands shook and the skin around his nails was raw, having been subconsciously picked at in his anxiety. He couldn’t shake the harrowing feeling of witnessing death up close, of coming so close to it himself. He still couldn’t believe it, he didn’t even realise it had happened until Ivan’s hands had slipped from Till’s neck and his body was on the floor and it was all over.

He had won, but at what cost?

He had won and it had all come tumbling down, the weight of the world so heavy and daunting Till could barely remember how to breathe.

The water did nothing to help the way his throat was strangling him, the remembrance of hands there, of giving up, of Ivan. Ivan, Ivan, Ivan.

A flash just outside of his peripheral, Till’s eyes are naturally drawn to the source of the light. A meteor shower. Ivan would’ve chided him softly, telling him to think of them as shooting stars. Divine guidance, a sign of hope, something people used to wish their deepest darkest desires into existence. Ivan had held his hand firmly the last time there had been one, stars flashing across the horizon beyond them as they’d run. As Till had turned back. As Ivan had followed.

Funny how in these moments where Till could not get Ivan out of his mind, could not erase him from his memory, could not stop seeing him, that a meteor shower presented itself to him. Rubbing salt in Till’s open wound and cracking the parts of him open he did not wish to see. The parts he did not wish to face. The ugly and raw sides of himself. If only he could erase them, go back and change something, do it all again. If only he’d looked, noticed, seen something that could’ve forewarned him. Maybe, just maybe, he could’ve prevented this all from happening.

Making a wish on a shooting star, an act so useless and childish. Futile. Till scoffed and closed his eyes as he lay back down and hoped for sleep to take him quickly, praying for dreams free of Ivan. Free of his smile and the look in his eyes, full of sorrow. He hoped nightmares would cloud his brain instead, he’d rather have the terrors from his dreams come to haunt him instead. He’d rather face his fears and the monsters that lurked in his closet than Ivan’s death repeating on a loop. A new form of torture, a reminder of his decisions. He was another name to mourn, another moment to add to Till’s never ending list of regrets.

Till dreamt of nothing.

Upon waking up there is a banging on his door rousing him from sleep and he mumbles out a barely legible, “up, I’m up.”

The pounding in his head is persistent and Till drags his feet over the edge of the bed as he makes his way out the room, like clockwork he’s headed to the cafeteria for breakfast. A lonely one at that, no one around to distract him anymore. No one to look at, no one to look at him. Just him and the other’s he didn’t bother to know, the others who were awaiting their turn, fighting for their own lives. The other’s who Till couldn’t help but envy, envy their ignorance at the proceedings from the night before.

Grabbing a pre-prepared tray from the stack in the cooler, Till makes his way towards his usual table, again, like clockwork. It is a practised action and something Till has done a million mornings before. Grab his tray, sit down, eat in silence with his eyes downcast before returning to his room to prepare for the day. Today. The day after round six, the day after–

Till shakes his head and sets the tray down, pulling his seat out and sitting down there, ready to feel nothing, to feed himself and look forward to his shower later. An excuse to wash off the feelings from yesterday, the emotions, the dread and ever growing guilt that coated his skin. To wash the disgusting taste of remorse from his mouth, wash it away until he feels nothing at all.

He’s so lost in the idea that he bites down on his lip accidentally, splitting it, copper filling his mouth with a metallic taste and causing Till to wince. Figures the one emotion able to be drawn from him so vividly in this moment is one of pain. There’s a hand on his face suddenly, gently cupping his chin from the bottom with its thumb and forefinger, turning his face towards them. Inky eyes meet his, sparking alight like crimson, head tilted and a soft smile painting his features.

Ivan.

This couldn’t be, he couldn’t be here, Till was going crazy. He must be. He’d finally been broken by the system, pulled apart at the seams and no one had been there to stitch him back together this time. No one had bothered enough to try.

“Careful.” Ivan speaks, voice soft, lilting and tilting in the same way it does when he sings. Till noticed it now, was taking in everything about Ivan, trying to catch out the hallucination his mind had conjured and placed in front of him, “wouldn’t want to put yourself at a disadvantage before tonight.”

“Tonight?” Till finds himself echoing.

Ivan’s smile twitches, only a fraction, for a split second. But Till notices, he’s looking now.

“Our match, surely you haven’t forgotten?” Ivan playfully quips but there's an undercurrent of sadness there.

Till’s world freezes.

He’s turning his head, breaking free from Ivan’s grip, “whatever.” He says for lack of better words, it comes out like he’s grumbling but his heart rate is skyrocketing. Maybe last night had been a realistic dream caused by the stress of the situation. Maybe he’d just psyched himself out so badly he’d lucid dreamed up the entire day and match all the way until the end.

So Ivan wasn’t really dead, Till still had his match to compete in and his situation hadn’t improved any since now he was sure he was going to lose. He was no match for Ivan in a ballad, not unless Ivan pulled something like dream Ivan had. But he wouldn't. Ivan wasn't that stupid. Ivan valued his life more than that.

The day passed in a blur, like every day before, except he was pulled from his room early to get dragged into hair and makeup, to be made a spectacle of. To be put on a pedestal and told to perform, told to do this and do that or he wouldn’t live to see another day. To be docile and obedient. He’d stopped struggling against his restraints long ago, he’d become numb to it all. Barely living.

Lights. They shone down on him and he squinted upwards, the mic was in his hand and the music was playing and it all felt like deja vu. He’d been here before, in his dream, in his practices. He’d been here. He was alight with nervous energy, hands gripping the mic with such force his knuckles were white. He poured himself into the song, the lyrics and the melody running past his lips and echoing around him.

It played out just like his dream with Ivan joining him later and the faint flashing of the screen behind them as it displayed both their names.

It played out just like his dream when the rain started and Ivan felt himself falter, felt his voice weakon and his heart rate quicken.

It played out just like his dream when he turned his head, seconds earlier than he had in his dream, to catch Ivan’s eyes before his hands were on his face and his lips on Till’s own and Ivan was kissing him.

Ivan was kissing him and it felt familiar. Ivan was kissing him and it felt just as desperate as it had before. Ivan was kissing him and Till was stunned into freezing, was too shocked to push away.

Ivan was kissing him.

Ivan was choking him.

His hands squeezed faintly at the sides of Till’s throat and that was when Till started to struggle. He knew how this ended, had his dream been a premonition? Had he seen into the future? And if so, would Ivan die just like he had there?

He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped to open them to find something different in front of him, a different scene, a different world. One where they would've been happy. One where they would’ve gone to school, rode their bikes, walked along the beach together. For the first time in a long time Till prayed to a God he didn’t believe existed.

It didn’t work.

His stare caught Ivan’s own and there was blood already seeping into the white of his suit. Till saw it this time, the desperation. Having tasted it he thought he was prepared for the look, the full force of it, unlike the glimpse from his dream. He was not. It carved him open, worked its way inside his body, burying itself beneath his lungs and pressing there. It began to carve itself onto his bones. Leaving a mark that would be with him forever.

A peck. A final peck. A goodbye is what Till recognised it as now. A selfish indulgence. Till choked on a sob, tried to shake his head, to convey that Ivan should not be doing this. It should be him, it was meant to be him. Not Ivan. Till wasn’t meant to be the one to survive this. He wasn’t meant to be the one to survive, to go on and to win. What chance did Till stand? He wasn’t the favourite. He wasn’t loved by the masses. He was exotic, a spectacle. He wasn’t Ivan.

For all his struggling it ended the same as his dream had.

With Ivan’s body at Till’s feet, Till buckling and falling to the floor. With being dragged away, Till’s hands trying to reach out and grasp at Ivan, fingers falling into the pool of blood that lay there reflecting the words of his win. It felt like losing. It felt disgusting, harrowing, hollow.

It couldn’t be. Even with his dream, the deja vu, he hadn’t been able to stop it.

He curled up on his bed that night, knees tucked in close to his chest as quiet sobs wracked his body.

Why?

Why?

Why?

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. He’d ruined his chance. His chance at saving him. He’d doomed Ivan yet again.

A banging. There was a banging on his door and someone yelling for him to get up. Deja vu flooded his senses. No. It couldn’t be. Surely not? His thoughts spiralled before fracturing and piecing together all with one clear motive in mind. One clear word. A name.

Ivan.

He was the knife, twisting slowly in Till’s gut. His smile, his hands, his voice. All of it flashed in vibrance and colour, too lifelike to be a dream, too real to deny.

Till ran down the corridor, feet padding along the floor and hardly controlling his breathing as he turned a corner and arrived at the door he so desperately wanted to see beyond. He was crazy, surely this was all just one convoluted dream. One very vivid and convoluted dream. That would’ve been true and easier to believe if it had happened only once or twice, but three times. Waking up the same way three times? Ivan being alive after dying twice? If Till opened this door and there Ivan was, alive, Till didn’t know what he was going to do with himself. He didn’t know how he’d handle it, confronting the reality of what was happening to him. It was much easier to be in denial, to live in denial.

Without so much as knocking Till yanked open the door with more force than he knew he could muster and all the breath he’d been holding in stuttered out of him as he choked on the singular word exiting his mouth, “Ivan?” Said like a hope, like a prayer.

And there he was, sitting on the edge of his bed, the image of practised perfection. Ivan. His brows furrowed slightly as he gazed up at Till and his expression morphed into one of confusion briefly before he schooled it back into its near flawless persona. A persona Till had seen the cracks of, had seen break and shatter in front of him. He was looking for it now, waiting to catch Ivan in the moments he thought Till wouldn’t be looking.

“Till?” Ivan says his name and Till is pulled in, drawn in. He feels the spark in his chest flicker slowly back to life and grow with each passing second.

Till doesn’t answer, too caught in Ivan’s gaze.

He was alive. Again. He was alive again. That thought repeated like a mantra in Till’s head.

This meant he would die again too. Till had to stop it.

Ivan was still looking at him, waiting for a response, “uhh…” Till began, “pencil. Do you… have a pencil?”

Chapter Text

Amused. That’s how Ivan looked at Till now, with eyes full of Mirth and the slightest tug at the corner of his lips. He stood up and made his way towards the desk nestled in the corner, rifled around in the drawer there and pulled out the object that Till had blundered his way into asking for. Till tracked his every movement, as if Ivan would suddenly disappear in a puff of smoke and nothing would remain. As if he would awaken at any moment and this would all be one big dream, one awful hallucination, a delusion to save himself from the darkness of his own mind.

He waggled it in the air as he approached Till, “here you go.” He spoke softly as he handed the pencil to Till, fingers brushing Till’s own lightly, causing him to jolt and tear his gaze away from Ivan.

Stuttering out a thank you Till turned heel and ran, bypassing the cafeteria and the smell of breakfast that beckoned him. He headed straight back to his room, heart ricocheting against his ribcage and knocking against his lungs. Warm. Ivan had felt warm. He was alive and he’d been so close that Till had almost expected a kiss after the previous few times they’d been in such close proximity to one another. Till had almost wanted Ivan to kiss him to prove just how alive he was.

His door shut behind him, louder than he anticipated it had him breaking into a startled pace back and forth across the small amount of floorspace his room offered him. Lip trapped between his teeth he bit down and worried at it, arms crossing firmly over his chest, pencil clasped tightly in one hand. He was stuck, he realised, stuck repeating round six over and over. Why? Well that was the question wasn’t it?

Sitting down at his desk with newkindled determination Till pulled out a loose piece of paper and started to note down everything he knew, mind repeating the details like he was trying to recall a dream slipping through his fingers. He remembered the key points, waking up, the routine of the day, the beginnings of the match and the eventual end. The end he wanted to stop. How did he stop it? 

It frustrated him, the haziness of his memory. What was something he could do this time? What could he do to attempt to put a stop to it? He could sing with all his heart and win but that would just leave Ivan to die still and he didn’t want that. However any sign of forfeiting on his end would lead Ivan to act in the way he did and sacrifice himself. It was an endless loop in his mind, him or Ivan, try or don't try. Making heads or tails of it was hard, it was difficult and Till felt frustration creeping up his throat in a familiar and irritating way.

Unless…

An idea came to him, the irritation was swallowed like vile bile creeping up his oesophagus. He ran through the logistics of not winning but keeping Ivan alive through his head, the idea spinning like that of a risky gamble but one that just might work. There were a few ways to go about his idea, a few possible scenarios that could work, all with one end goal, a solution that could save Ivan and stop the loop. That was the purpose of the loop was it not? To save Ivan. His wish from the other night, his wants, his needs, his desperation. Ivan was the one who was meant to be here, not Till, hence Till had to fix it. He had to right the world and put it back on its axis.

He scribbled away at the paper, catching a hold of his thoughts and pouring them out onto the parchment to better organise them and solidify his plan. He could do this. He would save him.

He would save him.

After all, how hard could it be?

Standing on stage that was the thought that kept him going, lights too bright yet again and his legs somehow felt weak beneath him. He didn’t get nervous before performing, not anymore, so desensitised to it all, so used to the stage and all the eyes perversely staring up at him. He was used to it all but his legs felt numb and his heart would not calm down.

The song was beautiful, achingly familiar and easier to perform the more often he did it. It was ingrained into his very being at this point. He could sing it in his sleep, could repeat the lyrics backwards, could do it all with Ivan’s gaze on him.

They were singing together and Till could hear the thrumming of his heart louder than the backing track, the soft percussion and strumming of a guitar. He could barely hear anything but Ivan’s voice, even his own was drowned out and in its place was Ivans.

Waiting. He was waiting for Ivan to make his move, waiting for the fall. He stopped singing, turning to look. Quicker this time. Ivan was here. He was here and his lips were on Tills and the familiarity of it was dizzying. Consuming.

Hands on his throat. Hands on his throat barely cutting off his breathing, hands on his throat that Till was keenly aware of, waiting for the right moment. His opportunity to strike.

There were hands on his throat, rough the pads of Ivan’s fingers squeezed. Till felt the callouses now, was aware of them and the hard work Ivan must have put in preparing for this moment. Guilt was eating at Till from the inside out.

Hands were on him and Till felt the brush of Ivan’s lips against his own. That damned final kiss goodbye. Till knew it for what it was now, he recognised it and he refused it. With a strength he did not know he could muster but prayed for either way he pushed against Ivan and looping an arm over both of Ivan’s he yanked down, dislodging Ivan’s grip like planned, spinning them and exchanging their positions. For only a moment, that was all he needed, to switch them at the right time, get the timing right and– pain. Pain blossomed across his chest from his shoulder and straight to his head.

The alarm in Ivan’s expression was quick and his hands went from where they were trying to cling to Till’s neck to the darkening of fabric on Till’s shoulder, his chest heaved with the effort as a second shot was fired and then– Ivan was dead.

Till stared in shock. His own wound now a distant feeling.

Again.

Ivan was dead again.

Round Six.

The kiss. The singing. The hands on his throat.

Till pushed. He shoved. He screamed.

Till let Ivan choke him, he didn’t. Till avoided the kiss, he didn’t. Till pushed Ivan out of the way, they both died. Till shielded Ivan, he died.

Again.

Again.

Blindly he tried to save Ivan, tried to sacrifice himself. Tried to right his wrongs. Round Six flashed overhead, taunting him.

Again.

They kissed. Ivan’s lips on his own, desperate, they both were. Desperate to save the other, desperate to help, to play the hero.

Again.

Hands on his throat, choking him. A lifeline, a collar, hands encircling his throat, pressing against his airway, reminding him he was alive.

Again.

Blood on his hands. He could feel it now. The blood. It may be gone when he woke up to the sight of his ceiling above him but he could feel it, warm and sticky it coated his palms, pressed against his knees. Red. Red clouded his vision. The blood, the screams, the fury, the anger.

Again.

Till threw his papers to the floor, tore the sheets off his bed and picked up one of his pillows, screaming into it. His fingers dug into the fabric before he tore it apart too. It’s thin, cheap material splitting easily and stuffing flying out. His chest heaved with exertion and he found he couldn’t keep his breathing in check, mind elsewhere and brain scattered.

“Why, why, why,” he continued to mutter the word on a broken loop, like a record stuck playing the same segment of music over and over. Broken. Repeating. A loop he couldn’t escape.

Why him? How could he save Ivan? How could he save himself? What was the answer? This wasn't fair.

Till let his frustration cloud his mind as he pushed over his desk and let the contents spill out onto the floor. The sound barely registed to himself as he spotted markers and picking them up he took to the walls of his room, writing over them. Drawing over them. A mess of jargon and nonsense, anger flowing freely out of him as it hadn’t in months. Pouring out of him as the dam had been broken, filled to the brim it was rushing out with such velocity Till was getting caught in the outpour.

He was drowning. Drowning in his own thoughts. Scribbling, using the marker so that the tip bent and died on him. Picking up another marker. Drawing hasty lines across the wall. Writing words. Writing lyrics. Recalling loops. Recalling the number of times. Reliving it all through the massive canvas he had created in front of him. Until the day was over, he stayed there, exhausting himself, egging on his violence, cheering on the dark depths of his mind, urging the thoughts there to manifest in ways he didn’ even know could exist.

There he stayed until it was time.

This time. This time he didn’t even try. He didn’t let a single note escape his lips, after all, what was the point? His anger had manifested itself and thrown him violently through the round over and over until he was left as nothing but a shell.

Envy ate at him as he came to realise he was the only one experiencing this torture, the world they lived in was bad enough, their circumstances dire enough, and yet he was stuck living a walking nightmare. He was stuck experiencing the death of someone he couldn't save, someone he could have saved, over and over.

Over and over.

Broken.

A loop.

He was stuck repeating time over and over and no one knew. Only he knew.

Only he knew.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Who was at fault? Ivan himself for loving Till? Till for having let go of Ivan’s hand all those years ago? Their captors and their cruel games?

Who was to blame? Who was he to direct his anger at if not himself?

Next time. Till saw red. The stage lights were bright and he blinked into them. He didn’t even wait for Ivan to make his entrance, he screamed into the mic and tore it from its stand. Red and hot, fire, passion, a frenzy. Till let his anger wash over him and take its various ugly forms take shape. Fear. Envy. Resentment. He let them fester and bubble over. He let them hold him down, kicking and screaming. He let them pull him under, but not without a fight. Not now. Not when the fire was hot and the spark was just beginning to get out of control.

Not now when he’d finally had enough.

“Fuck you.” He spat in one of the guards faces, a sneer contorting his features into an unpleasant scowl. Faintly he could hear Ivan protesting, asking what was going on, pleading with them to let Till go. Till found the anger narrowing to a point, fizzling out slightly as the drugs pulled him under and his head was kept down. He focused his attention on the sound of Ivan’s voice and the frantic concern there. He focused in on it and felt the anger simmer, felt his nerves cool. He felt the repeated days blur together into one and narrow until all he could focus on was Ivan and–

Oh, he thought, he didn’t get a kiss this time. 

A feeling of disappointment flickered to life within him and then, the roof of his room was in front of his eyes. Till sighed, staring up at it, “back to the drawing board.”

Chapter Text

By now the anger had disappeared, replaced by the cold feeling of dread, of desperation. Till could barely remember the last time he’d properly slept, properly rested his body. His eyes felt heavy and his heart a sinking stone in his chest. He felt fear claw its way up his throat and drown him in its embrace.

Ivan had died again this time, collapsing forward in his arms and laughing weakly into his shoulder, some weak attempt at a joke playing off his lips. Till had let out a shuddered breath, a bark of laughter, as they both had sunk to the floor. He clung to Ivan like a lifeline, hoping and praying that maybe this time he died and Till wouldn’t have to see it happen again. Maybe this time he’d live and Till wouldn’t have to see it again. Maybe this time Till would wake up and the world would have started moving again. Anything to end the loop, to have it be over, to wake him from this living nightmare.

Because he was living in a nightmare at this rate, everything he did had no effect. Everything he tried to do chipped away at his resolve, crumbling it quickly beneath the weight of his body. He was falling and waiting to hit the ground below, to be taken out of the misery he was currently ensnared in.

Admiring his blood stained hands, Till feels an ugly sort of desperation claw up his chest and he’s moving from his room and down the hallway in a flash. He’s navigating the corridors towards Ivan’s room, wondering if maybe spending the night elsewhere will end the cycle. It is a feeble hope, weak and fleeting. It is one he knows will not work, too simple a solution, but it is the one he clings to at this moment. Desperate for any source of comfort.

He opens the door to Ivan’s room and takes in its appearance. The scattered books and messily organised papers across his desk drew in Till’s attention, the bed perfectly made and furniture arranged meticulously. Taking in the room the desk stood out and Till was drawn to it.

Fingers trailed across the back of the chair pushed into the desk and brushed papers aside, not even taking in the words hastily scribbled there. Until his eyes caught onto a piece of paper with his name on it. His name. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it did, he’s seen Ivan’s devotion enough times now to understand the other man has been watching him for a long time now. He’s been watching and Till hadn’t known. No. That wasn’t correct. Till had known, he just hadn't wanted to acknowledge that he had.

There’s a hesitation in his actions as Till goes to pull the paper out, to read the contents that lay on it. He feels the vague feeling of disgust and guilt sneak their way into his lungs as he does so. Ivan may be dead now but he’ll be alive again tomorrow and peering at his things feels wrong but Till’s curiosity gets the better of him. His curiosity wins out and he steadies the paper in front of his line of sight, eyes trailing over the words there.

He’s met with the sight of little notes on times Till has interacted with Ivan or paid particular attention to something scribbled along the edges of the page. What takes up the majority of the space however, what has Till's breath leaving him in one fell swoop, is the sight of hastily written lyrics and lines of prose. A confession of sorts, one that’s been written and rewritten, treasured and kept a secret. It is clearly one of many and Till feels himself breaking in half. He feels himself wanting to know, to know why. Why him?

He'd done nothing to deserve Ivan's undivided attention and devotion and here it was on display and it was overwhelming in a way that Till couldn't ignore it anymore.

As he’s going to reach for more of the papers he hears it, a commotion outside the doors and alarms blaring. They’re blaring and warning of intruders who have escaped custody. They’re loud and obnoxious but they are a sign, a clear sign that something is going on.

Till has never paid much attention to them before, always in shock, always too far buried in his own mind to really care. With Ivan’s blood on his hands or his head cradled in his lap Till has never paid much attention to what went on after Ivans death. He’d always been too clouded by the feeling of desperation, of anger, to want to know.

Now though, now he wanted to know. He tiptoed to the door as if he could be heard over the alarm and he pressed his ear against it as he heard voices come closer. He heard footsteps walking quickly, heavy boots hitting the floor.

“How hard is it to keep a hold of two girls?” Till hears one voice say.

“Remember they’re rebels, we’re just lucky to have caught them before the round this time.” Another voice answered.

The first voice grumbled in response and Till’s heart was set alight. “Can’t believe one of them’s the missing contestant. She basically handed herself over after getting out.”

The second voice laughed, “what an idiot.”

There's a crackle and a command being filtered through communication devices and their footsteps pick up to that of a run.

Till slides down the door, hand pressed to the wood and legs curling up beneath him.

Two girls. Rebels. Captured them. Before the round. This time. Missing contestant.

Before the round this time.

Mizi.

Slots click into place in Tills head and he’s running through the possibilities this opens to him, the idea that if he can get contact with Mizi and the rebels that he can save Ivan. That he can save them. He can save all of them. What if that was the purpose of this loop? His purpose in this play.

He just has to figure out how to contact them so he can bargain with them to save Ivan. He did not matter, as long as Ivan was saved Till would be happy. It was a strange thought, realising that he wanted Ivan to live not purely just out of guilt anymore but also because he was beginning to care for him. He was learning more about Ivan now than he had in the past few years, having grown apart since they were kids.

He cared about Ivan and he was not above begging for someone to help save him.

Again.

He woke up again, having fallen asleep in the dark of Ivan’s room. He awoke in his own bed and set to work writing everything out for his plan to work, for himself to succeed. For him to save Ivan.

Tracking down the rebel’s is easier than Till would have thought, he just has to look in the right places and be pointed in the right direction. It probably helps that he has no fear of death anymore, his life having been handed over to the grim reaper long ago. Having been signed away after this whole loop had started that now he does things fearlessly and with a scary determination. He has no regard for the life he has, living it over and over he’s laughing in the face of the chances he’s being given, the cruel twist of fate as he just lives over and over.

He’s been praying to a god he no longer believes in, a God he never thought he believed in. He had hoped briefly that if he prayed that maybe they’d bring Ivan back. Maybe, just maybe he hadn’t been praying hard enough. Maybe, just maybe he hadn’t been saying the right words. Maybe this time God would listen and intervene and save them both. Save Ivan at least. He begged and he pleaded, kneeling by his bed, elbows resting on the covers and the mattress, hands lapsed together so tightly he could barely feel the tips of his fingers.

Finding the rebellion and communicating with them was easy, begging them to save Ivan was easier. They wanted to save them both either way, they wanted to get them out and Till couldn’t be happier. In helping surely it would change the outcome, surely they’d get to him and Ivan in time. Surely it would work out.

It was all looking so hopeful. Too hopeful.

He’d worked his way into their good books at a rapid pace, telling them patterns of guards they did not know and the set up of the stage. They asked how he knew and he lied, saying he had special permission to see it, that he was privileged. He was not. It was just burned into the landscape of his mind, his walking nightmare. How could he forget it?

They did not save Ivan the first time, but they saved Till.

Kicking and screaming they’d pulled him away from Ivan, into their getaway vehicle. He had seen Mizi and a sob had torn through his throat. A curse, a myriad of insults towards his saviours. How could they have left Ivan? He could've been saved. How could they have let him wrap his fingers around Till’s throat and let the bullets sink into his flesh? Why did they wait? Why weren't they quick enough?

“He was already gone.” Were the cruel words that came forth from their mouths.

“There was nothing to be done.” He didn’t believe them.

“You’re safe now.” They told him and he scoffed and turned his head, waiting for exhaustion to take him. To take him back to his room, back to square one.

He continued to repeat the loop, and continued to beg for their help day and day again. He continued to have them agree and he continued to feed them information, wondering if the slight changes he was making would make a difference. He wondered if different information would help, slightly altered and changed and if his actions varying would help. It was like a broken record of rinse and repeat. The butterfly effect being put into motion in such a way that he didn’t know if it was even so much as worth it anymore. He could barely remember the routes he had gone at this point, just hoping it would be different this time. Begging that he would not have to hold Ivan's warm corpse anymore.

– ☆ –

Pushing around the food on his plate one morning, he’s so zoned out, eyes feeling heavy and heart a sinking stone in his chest. He can barely stomach his food and shifts to get up, not even wanting to bother finishing it today, when he catches the glimpse of someone taking the seat across from him.

He looks up warily, ready to see someone he barely knows give him a pitying look and wish him luck for his round later when he is instead met with Ivan.

Ivan with his silky raven coloured hair and irresistibly charming smile. Ivan who is looking at him not with pity like the rest and not with disdain like the guards. Not with guilt like the rebels. Ivan who looks at Till and sees something else. Something else entirely. Till wants to know what it is.

Since the night he’d found himself in Ivan’s room and rifled through the papers on his desk, Till’s view on Ivan had shifted. He felt the incessant urge to ask and to know, to discover the little things about Ivan like Ivan had for him. He felt as if he had never truly given Ivan the chance to know him and yet he had done so anyway, painstakingly piecing together parts of Till whenever he could. It should be something Till finds disturbing, but who was to say he was any different? What with the way he had idolised Mizi.

“You should eat.” Ivan says, watching as Till pushes his food around his plate again.

Till shrugged helplessly, “not hungry.”

“Nervous?”

“Not anymore.” Till said and Ivan laughed. He must think Till is being smart but really he couldn’t find it in himself to get nervous anymore. He had repeated it one too many times to get nervous. To care.

“Don’t need me to wish you good luck then?”

Till glared, “I don’t need it.”

Ivan hummed, “so bold.” He speaks matter of factly before, “I’ll wish you luck anyway.”

Till lets out a bark of laughter, missing the look of startled adoration that passes across Ivan’s face as he does so, “keep it, you’re going to need it more.”

He didn’t tell him why. Ivan ignored him and wished him luck anyway.

Ivan still died.

Till wished he’d kept his luck, as silly of a notion as it was maybe it could’ve saved him.

He knew it wouldn’t have and yet he tries again and again, he turns around and he goes through his own version of hell everyday to save him.

Like Orpheus journeying through hell Till is repeating the loop again and again. Devotion driving him forward.

– ☆ –

Eurydice had looked at Orpheus and smiled, “let go of me.” She had told him.

Orpheus had just held her gaze, her hand clasped firmly in his own, “never.”

– ☆ –

“Do you remember the time we ran?” Till asks Ivan out of the blue the next time the other approaches him in a loop.

Ivan looked shocked for a moment, eyes darting around to see if anyone had heard, “yes... why?”

Till shrugs, “I was just thinking, what sort of a life do you think we’d be living now if I hadn’t gone back?” If you hadn't followed me back.

There is clear confusion on Ivan’s face as he sits down next to Till, the grassy hill stretching out below them and wind rifling through his hair, “what brought this on?”

“Answer the question.” Till says, followed quickly by a soft, “please?”

Ivan’s posture softens and his eyes leave Till’s form to glance out over the expanse of green in front of them, “I’m not sure we’d have made it far…”

“But?” Till goaded, encouragin him.

“But,” Ivan continues, “I think we’d have found an abandoned property to hole up in for the night at least.”

Till hummed, waiting for Ivan to continue. Waiting for him to spin the tale and talk of a timeline that could exist somewhere else, for versions of themselves in another universe.

He waited for Ivan to illustrate a life he could dream of to keep the nightmares at bay. Not that he dreamt much in his current situation.

“I think we’d pull out as many comforters and blankets as we could, too scared to light a fire we’d huddle together beneath a mound of fur.”

Till laughed, “so we’d make a blanket fort?”

“If you wished it, we’d make a blanket fort.”

“Don’t act as if I’d be the only one who’d want to, you would too.”

Ivan quirks an eyebrow at him and there’s a flirty smile playing at his lips, “would I?”

Till groans, “don’t lie.”

“I’d never.” Ivan says with a smile and like it was the greatest sin of all time, Till couldn’t help but laugh softly at his display.

“There it is.” Ivan speaks softly.

“What?”

Ivan’s dropping his head to rest it on his knees, having pulled them up. He’s got his arms wrapped around his legs and he’s gazing upwards at Till from this position. “Your laugh.”

Till flushes and stands up abruptly, opening and closing his mouth a few times he huffs and turns on his heel to retreat. His heart gently flutters in his chest and his mind buzzes as he stumbles a little. He hears Ivan laugh and he thinks he understands. There it is.

Ivan dies again that night and Till catches him as he falls. They’d barely started their song when it had all devolved into chaos around them. He’d failed again.

He’d failed again and Till was bleeding out in his arms.

“You know...” Ivan had coughed.

Till shook his head, words escaping him.

“I think I would’ve held your hand as we slept beneath our blanket fort.”

Till chokes on his tears now, “shut up.”

“Always so mean.” Ivan laughs and his eyes are slipping shut, hand that had been reaching up to wipe Tills tears away going limp and falling.

He’s slipping away and Till can do nothing but watch yet again. His hand slips into Ivans and he squeezes.

Ivan does not squeeze back.

“I would’ve liked that.” He whispers, but no one hears.

– ☆ –

Orpheus is turning and in her heart Eurydice cannot find that she has the ability to blame him, she is just thankful that he has loved her this much to check on her. She smiles at him as he realises what he has done, the reality of the situation sinking in and her heart swells as the horror of it all settles across his features.

“You’re early.” She says.

Her heart shatters at his response, “I missed you.” He tells her.

– ☆ –

He found himself seeking out Ivan more and more each time the loop reset. He’d make his contact with the rebels, he’d beg and plead. He’d try new tactics to get them to listen to outlandish demands with information he couldn’t provide a source for and then he’d seek Ivan out. He’d talk to Ivan. He’d respond to his flirtations and he found it eased him.

The comfort the other man held was a source of relief for Till. The burden of the loops lessened the second he was with the other and could breathe again. The burden of the loops felt miles away when he was sat, pressed shoulder to shoulder with the other. If Ivan noticed anything different he did not mention it in a way that was cruel, probably chalking it up to the fact Till was nervous for the round ahead of them.

“You’re clingy today, to whom do I owe the pleasure of this change in behaviour?”

Till scoffs, “no one.” He’s twirling a pencil around in his fingers, absentmindedly, a habit he’d picked up long ago.

His leg is hooked around one of Ivan’s as they sat beside one another in comfortable silence.

Till does not feel like he can talk today, he does not feel like he’s able to learn more about him. He knows too much already. He’s learnt so many things about Ivan over the past few days, weeks, months- he does not know but he feels himself growing to care too much, to open himself up to more hurt. He can’t help it, he can’t stop himself. He wishes he could but Ivan is as much rooted to the core of Till’s being as he possibly can be at this point. So entangled in Till’s soul he cannot deny the pull of attraction he feels any longer.

He should not care but he does.

He should not be falling but he is.

He is reckles in his abandonment of saving his own sanity that he has allowed himself the gentle art of getting to know Ivan every time the loop resets. Begging the world to save him, begging the God’s to put him out of his misery.

It is cruel to want to know more about the other knowing Ivan will be gone before the night ends and will not remember the next time he smiles at Till.

He does it anyway, letting his heart break in the process.

He’d stopped stitching it up a long time ago.

– ☆ –

Eurydice looks at Orpheus now and she is smiling, she couldn’t help but be captured by his charm. She is dying a second time. He had turned around to look at her at long last and she is dying again.

Again she is dying but she cannot find it in her heart to detest him for it. For putting the nail in the coffin and turning around to look at her once more.

She uttered no complaint against her love, for how could she? What was there to complain about but the fact that she had been loved.

– ☆ –

He awoke again and played over conversations in his head. He played over making deals with the rebels and asking questions of Ivan.

He played over bargaining with a higher power, asking for them to end his misery.

He closed his eyes and wished for the mercy of someone, of something. He pleaded as he made amends, told them he’d become a better person and if he did so would that be enough to have them stop this nightmare. Hadn’t he done enough already? Tried enough already? How many more times would he have to do this? How many more times did he have to see Ivan die?

He went through the motions of the day.

He passed information to the rebels.

He talked with Ivan.

He got ready for the round ahead.

The round ahead.

Round six.

He was singing yet again, almost on autopilot. Ivan’s smiling face played on loop in his head as he did so. Ivan’s smiling face and his sharp canines. His coy words that flushed Till’s cheeks and had him biting off a smile.

Ivan had been different these past few rounds, or was it that Till was finally giving him a chance? Not that Ivan had been different but that Till had allowed him to exist in his orbit.

He’d allowed him to exist in his orbit and in doing so he’d allowed himself to feel.

To fall.

Ivan was singing with him and vaguely in the distance Till could hear the sounds of a commotion, the music cutting off and the sounds of guns blaring, ricocheting around the room.

He sees Ivan rushing over to him, a constant immovable force.

And for once Till lets himself be selfish. He meets Ivan halfway and grabs his face in his hands, “thank you.” He says.

He can’t say what for, for all of it he guesses. For the times Ivan had saved him and for the memories he’d begun to collect like stamps along the way. For holding Till and kissing him, for never ever shaking in his determination to be the one that would take the fall. For his devotion.

Till cannot express how he knew what Ivan was doing, what Ivan had been planning all along. He could not express just how much that meant to him now. The multiple good luck’s, the well wishes, the banter and the soft smiles. The image of them huddled beneath a blanket fort, warm and safe with no one to bother them. He cannot tell Ivan all of that in this short amount of time between now and the resetting of the loop.

So instead, he kisses Ivan and feels his fingers shaking against Ivan’s skin. He’s kissing him and Ivan is startled before his hands sneak up to hold Till’s, to stop them from shaking. He’s holding Till’s hands and there’s a gentleness to him as he returns Till’s kiss.

It’s consuming, sad and desperate on both their parts. It is as much of a thank you on Till’s end as it is a confession, an admittance to his slowly unravelling feelings.

He feels himself grow more desperate, hopes that Ivan understands what he is trying to say. Begs whatever power is messing with his life to give him just a few more moments, to let him kiss Ivan for just a moment longer. To let him get lost in the feeling of Ivan's lips on his own and the taste of his tears as he lets the hopeless feeling claw its way up his chest.

He does not get what he wishes for.

The pain that is blossoming across his abdomen is nothing compared to the pain he feels in realising that Ivan will not remember this tomorrow. He will not know. Till is dying with him this time and tomorrow he will remember the taste of Ivan’s lips on his own accompanied by the scent of blood and smoke in the air and Ivan will not know.

He will not remember that Till is falling for him, that Till had kissed him first this time.

He will not remember their conversations and flirtations. He will not remember like Till does.

But Till will remember Ivan loves him, like he has every time before.

Till will remember and he'll try again.

– ☆ –

“How will you remember?” Orpheus is asking, confused.

Eurydice just smiles knowingly, “that I love you?” she responds.

Orpheus nods, “yes.”

There is a pause, a slight break in their easy flowing conversation as she pulls him close and kisses his forehead, “that’s easy.” She looks at him, her smile is radiant, “I cannot help it.”

– ☆ –

Ivan looks shocked to see Till there, to see his face come into view. His lip is wobbling as Ivan gets up, frown furrowing his brows and concern riddling his expression. It’s early, too early in the morning, too weird. Ivan doesn’t remember but Till does. Ivan doesn’t know all the things Till does, he doesn’t know that Till is slowly falling. He doesn’t know that he already has. He only remembers the Till of yesterday who ignored him. He only knows the version of Till that is aeons apart from the person Till has become. He does not know all Till has been through. He does not know what is fracturing him and splitting him into pieces in this moment as he stands in Ivan's room and tries his hardest not to scream and cry.

He does not know what Till has been through. He does not understand, but Till wants him too. He’s desperate, he wants to be understood.

He doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

Ivan closes the distance between them and Till breathes in shakily, eyes watery but alight with determination he looks up as he speaks, “I have something I want to tell you.”

Pleading to the fates that have placed him here, he has made the conscious decision to tell Ivan everything, he just hopes Ivan believes him.

He asks them, begs them, to let Ivan believe him.

Chapter Text

Time stretches out as Till waits for Ivan’s answer. He knows it must appear crazy. Till had appeared in Ivan’s room with his bed hair and dishevelled clothes, panting because he’d practically ran the whole way there. He knows he appears crazy, and must sound it too, but Ivan is sitting up, legs over the side of the bed, his own hair pointing in wild directions. Till would call it cute, find it endearing, if he were not spiralling in the confines of his own mind.

“Please–” Till begins, going to ask Ivan to hear him out again.

“Okay.” Ivan says. No other questions needed. No questions needed at all. He looks so ready to accept whatever Till has to tell him, so ready to listen and help Till. His expression is soft, concern is riddling his features, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Till remembers the kisses. He remembers the lies and the deception. He remembers Ivan’s blood soaked into his skin and his body, still warm, in his arms. There is never any light in his eyes. He remembers Ivan always trying to comfort him, always trying to help him and ease his worries when he was the one who needed tending to. Over and over again he had watched Ivan die, and over and over again he had failed to stop it.

So, taking a deep breath, he says, “You die tonight.”

Ivan laughs. Till says nothing. The room devolves into silence. The silence is startlingly loud if a pin were to be dropped Till reckons he would hear it. “Confident you’ll beat me?” Ivan asks Till, an upwards quirk on his lips as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

Till feels the air in his lungs escape him as he observes Ivan and the way in which he moves, so familiar to him and yet not the same as he’s come to know. Till hasn’t eased the cold exterior off of him yet, he hasn’t asked his questions and cracked open the door of his heart. He’s constantly reopening the cage to which he’s kept his complicated feelings towards the raven haired man locked in.

“No, I mean–” Till cuts himself and runs a hand through his hair, he feels nothing but an overwhelming feeling of sadness as he remembers that Ivan does not know. He will not know unless Till explains it to him, but how many times will that happen? Will this be his new variation of the loop? Will this be his new hellscape? A nightmare of his own creation to which he has to live out until the end of his days.

How long can he keep getting out of bed? How much longer can he take the steps out onto that stage and sign away his and Ivan’s fate day after day?

Ivan had tried to joke with Till, playing off his notice of Till’s quiet unease, until Till began to pace. Now he just looked truly concerned, worried. He probably thought Till was insane. They didn’t interact, they weren’t like that until Till had started to make the effort as he’d repeated the loop. Till ignores Ivan and Ivan watches Till. That is the way it has always been. That was the way it had been. Until Ivan had told Till secrets and Till had listened. Until there was a seed of understanding sprouting beneath Till’s ribcage as he got to knowing Ivan.

In his pacing Till is racing through how to voice his circumstances to Ivan. It isn’t simple, he’ll sound insane, but he comes to the conclusion that if he fails this time he’ll just get to try again. After all, he’s stuck in this loop.

“I know you’re going to sacrifice yourself for me tonight.” Till says and he watches as Ivan’s facade cracks, smile faltering.

“What?” He tries to act shocked, tries and fails. Till knows him too well now for it to work. He notices the slight waver in Ivan’s voice and he can’t help but choke on a laugh.

There is a sadness he doesn’t recognise in his voice as he continues, “I know because I’ve lived it, so many times, too many times. I can’t seem to stop living it. Everyday I wake up and you’re alive again and I feel like maybe, just maybe, this is the time that you’ll live– that I'll be the one to save you.”

A pause.

“I never do.” He says and his voice shakes. His lip wobbles and he angrily rubs his eyes, refusing for this to be a moment wherein he is overwhelmed by the madness of it all.

Ivan’s silence is like a gun piercing straight through his skin, breaking himself in half and shattering his heart. It exists for only a fraction of a second and it is enough for Till to waver in his decision to tell Ivan.

Sitting up Ivan places his hands on either side of himself and then he’s moving one of them to beckon for Till to move towards him. Till shuffles forward, suddenly determined to not make any form of eye contact. He looks at their feet and he feels Ivan’s hand grasp his own, his thumb rubbing across the back of Till’s hand in a soothing motion that is too intimate for Till at this moment. It shakes him to his core and has him wanting– aching for more.

“Let’s run away.” Ivan speaks and it shakes Till from his daze, his regret clouding his mind.

It is not the first time Till has heard these words coming from Ivan and he’s suddenly transported back to when he was younger, to when he had run with Ivan the first time. He’s pulled between the past and the present and the future of this loop.

He has not tried this option yet.

“You believe me?” He asks, the agreement on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re not smart enough to come up with something like this to throw me off my game.” Ivan teases.

Till’s head snaps up and he glares to which Ivan smiles softly, “well?” He asks.

Till nods and Ivan is standing up, grabbing ahold of Till’s hand as he ushers them out the door in the early hours of the morning. He’s ushering them to the outside, through passageways that Till takes note of in his mind as the warmth from Ivan’s hand seeps into his own and burns desire into Till’s skin.

They run and it is wonderfully freeing being able to step outside, in the blur and haze of it all Till is aware of the ticking clock, the countdown chasing him out. He does nothing to alert Ivan, just happy to be in his presence.

It ends the way it always does. Only this time, Till finds comfort in the fact that Ivan is there with him and that he knows.

– ☆ –

“You die tonight.” He says again and Ivan listens as he explains for the second time.

“This is going to sound crazy.” He says, and it does. It always does.

It doesn’t stop Ivan from believing him. He always will.

“I don’t know how many more times I can tell you.” He says, tiredness seeping into his voice.

Ivan suggests something else Till hasn’t tried, Till’s worn look reflected in Ivan’s eyes.

It doesn’t work.

“I can’t watch you die again.” Till speaks and it’s like watching a crash in slow motion, the crestfallen look of devastation that passes over Ivan’s face as he reaches out towards Till.

There’s a desperation there and Till latches onto it, “can you promise not to sacrifice yourself for me this time?”

Ivan’s answer is immediate and resolute, “no.”

Till wants to be able to blame him for his answer, but he knows Ivan too well now. All he can do is appreciate that he hadn’t been lied to.

“You die tonight.” Till tries again only to wake up in his bed once more.

Death is a friend to Till now, a comforting presence almost. Again and again he sees death. No matter how hard he tries to scare it away, it remains unchanging. Till is slowly beginning to think maybe he should embrace death and welcome it with open arms.

Maybe it would hurt less that way.

Maybe he wouldn’t waste his tears that way.

– ☆ –

The words lay heavy on his tongue, immovable as they are, he can’t seem to push them out of his mouth. Ivan is staring at him expectantly as he has every morning since Till had decided to tell him what’s been happening to him. Ivan looks concerned like he always does and Till aches to be held by him, to immediately be embraced by him. Till longs for Ivan to kiss him like he means it, for Ivan to remember. He aches for it because he’s growing to learn more about Ivan, to mourn for parts of him that Till should not know but does.

“I’m sorry.” He says, the words come out before he can stop them and it’s like baring his heart for all to see with the way in which he wants to choke on them and force them back down his throat, to never be seen again.

“For?” Ivan probes.

“I couldn’t save you.” Till answers. The words are coming quicker now, the dam breaks and words come seeping through the cracks in fragmented sentences. They come rushing out like the sounds of broken promises. They hurt to say and they deliver an impact that Till wishes wasn’t so harrowing.

Ivan stands in front of him, lithe form and slender limbs. Nimble fingers catch Till’s shirt sleeve, his hands shaking. “I couldn’t save you.” He repeats.

“From?” Ivan asks.

“Everything, everyone… me.” Till says. Though it is more complicated than that, isn't it? He couldn’t save Ivan from the endless tragedy that befalls him. He couldn’t stop the bullets or trade their places. He couldn’t watch it happen again. He wanted to give up.

He wanted to tell Ivan, at least once, that he was sorry. That he was sorry for putting him in this predicament, that he was sorry for the wavering of his determination. That he was sorry because he wanted to give up.

The silence stretches between them, “why?” Ivan asks another question and the fracture in the dam continues to break open.

Why? He asks and Till scrambles to figure it out. Till scrambles to grab a hold of reality, to delve into the who’s and the why’s. All he wants is one more day, one more day where Ivan and him spend time together. Where him and Ivan are close to one another. So he tells Ivan, but he doesn’t tell him everything. Selfishly he keeps the times they’ve kissed a secret, he keeps the times the secrets they’ve told one another close to his heart. He holds these memories of Ivan close to his heart, locked in a cage, away from the words spilling out of the dam. He holds them tight and doesn’t let go.

Just once more he wants to pretend it is all okay.

And it is, until the stage. Until the round begins again.

Again and again and again. What was the point again?

“Maybe… we should die together.” Till speaks and there is a beat of hesitation, the rain pounding and the sound of the music surrounding them barely registering. He’s been here too many times to count now. Too many times. Again and again.

Ivan is laughing as the music continues to play and the collective breath of their audience is held, trying to grasp onto the words they are whispering to one another. Till’s hands are cupping Ivan’s face and he’s pulling their foreheads together, “I don’t want to kiss you again and have you forget.”

“Again?” Ivan chokes.

There’s an odd sensation of loss withering from within Till, a feeling of mourning what could have been. He’s wiping at the tears forming in Ivan’s eyes as Ivan comes to conclusions of scenarios Till would have been through. As he realises that Till has just been distracting him from properly processing the information he’d given him earlier that morning.

He’s pulling his hands away and fisting his hands into Ivan’s shirt, “they’ll start shooting soon.” Till states, matter of factly.

“Why?”

“We stopped singing, basically forfeiting the competition.”

Ivan lets out a shaky breath and his fingers find themselves digging into Till’s hips, grasping at his waist, “I’m sorry.” He says, words escaping him.

Till shakes his head, “it’s not your fault. This is my punishment.”

“For what?”

“Not noticing sooner.”

Ivan puts distance between their faces, a half hearted smile gracing his features, “kiss me again?” He asks.

It’s Till’s turn to choke now as he hears the clatter of footsteps coming towards them, as he senses the inevitability of their death rounding the corner.

“Okay.” He whispers.

They kiss and it tastes sorrowful, like damnation. It tastes like goodbye.

Chapter Text

His movements feel sluggish, legs a dead weight and heart a heavy burden in his chest. With every loop the growing feeling of falling, tripping and stumbling into the feeling of love becomes more cumbersome. He wishes he could scream and cry out but he feels numb to it all now. Though, numb wasn’t exactly the right word, he feels as if he’s lost the right to be angry. He’s past the point of being upset and he’d given up hope long ago. He went with the motions of the day now, like a bottle drifting along the surface of the ocean, taken by the waves, he follows the directions the day lays out for him.

He hasn’t allowed the day to follow its natural course for who knows how long now and so maybe he’ll do just that. He’ll go through the motions and carefully laid out steps, talking when spoken to and singing before stopping. Ivan will kiss him and Ivan will choke him and Till will be grateful to feel the heat from his hands before his body drops to the ground.

Till does not know if he can continue to get to know Ivan when Ivan does not remember. It feels like he is cheating, that Ivan is stuck knowing the Till from weeks ago every time the loop resets and yet Till is allowed to continue to know Ivan in excruciating detail. Till is filling in the pieces of the puzzle whilst Ivan is losing his. Forever searching for a missing piece that does not exist, that Till has on his person and that cannot be handed over no matter how desperately he wants to give it.

There is nothing outlandish about the original day, in fact Till had spent most of it in a blur, he was sure because he’d essentially given up. Ivan was the crowd favourite, the shoe in for the win, he was the one who was ensured a future and Till was nothing more than a boy who had lost his spark. He was nothing more than the rookie, the underdog there for nothing more than a good show. Realistically a competition between the two of them would never work out, not with how they interacted and not with how Ivan felt. Realistically it was never going to end well for them. Doomed from the start they had given themselves no favours and instead stood with a shovel in hand overlooking a grave of their own creation.

He wakes up again and again thinking it was all pointless, his desperation having led him nowhere and his resolution having come up short. Till knows this and yet he can’t shake the unwavering, nagging feeling that tugs at his heart and holds tightly to the strings keeping him up.

Theoretically after all his hard work, after all he’d try and done and said, the solution should not have come so easily. After all the cuts and bruises and screaming the answer was seemingly handed to him on a silver platter.

It was a day like any other, a day wherein he was going through the motions and existing as nothing more than a ghost with the way his eyes hung heavy and his tongue felt like a solid weight in his mouth that was hard to swallow around.

It was just a day like any other and yet whilst waiting to go on stage, the bright lights shining down through the cracks in the door, he stumbled over his own two feet. Then he heard it, a chuckle. Short and sharp it was cut off and muffled quickly.

Ivan wasn’t far behind him and had seen him trip. Ivan had always been behind him and all Till had to do was look. He was looking now wasn’t he? Turning around to gaze at the black haired man, hair slicked back and eyes calculating but full of a warmth that Till knew how to look for and find.

Familiarity engulfed Till as he snapped, “do you think it’s funny?”

“What?” Ivan feigned, staring directly at Till. His eyes were always searching. Till wondered if Ivan could tell there was something different about him, that slowly but surely Till was in fact, falling for him.

Isn’t it strange how an emotion such as love could so easily be swapped with hatred? Emotions derived from a place of passion, of strong loathing or longing they accompanied one another like other feelings could not. They engulfed and devoured, easily making everything else succumb in their path.

“Do you think it’s funny–” Till cuts himself off.

That you’re going to die?

That you’re going to leave me behind?

That you’re going to haunt me?

He coughs, “do you think it’s funny, my misfortune?” He finishes, though he can’t help the spark of sincerity that catches in his tone. Ivan doesn’t miss it. Ivan grabs ahold of it and also Till’s shoulder as he goes to turn back to the door that leads to their impending doom.

It had been a while since Till had allowed himself to willingly talk to Ivan, having given up he keeps their exchanges to the moments up on stage where he can only feel the dampness of the rain seeping through his clothes and the warmth of Ivan’s hands when he grabs him.

The feeling of Ivan’s lips on his as he kisses Till desperately and Till tries his best to play the part of a disgruntled unrequited love. Sometimes he catches himself trying to pull Ivan in instead of push him away and sometimes he catches Ivan noticing it, but it never amounts to anything, not when Ivan dies and the day repeats and it was all for naught.

Ivan’s hand on his shoulder almost burns and Till shrugs him off with a ferocity he doesn’t expect, “don’t touch me!” He hisses, shock rampant in his own tone, surprised at his own actions.

Holding up his hands, an apologetic look passes Ivan’s face. It does not suit him, Till thinks.

Before Ivan can apologise Till runs a hand over his face and sighs, “ignore that. Ignore me. Just, can we get this over with.”

“Cheer up.” Ivan says, “you could win.”

Till ignores him. He doesn’t say that’s exactly why he wants to get it over with so he remains silent. The sound of cheering from the other side of the door loud and obnoxious.

It’s so simple, the interaction, it reminds Till of all the reasons he hates Ivan and all the reasons he loves him. From love to hate to back again, wasn’t it all the same?

He’s reminded of Ivan’s unwavering obsession with digging in right where it hurts. He’s reminded of all the times he’s been made to look like a fool, to be an object to be won or a shoulder for Ivan to lean on. He’s reminded of kisses stolen in moments of desperation and truths shared beneath a sky that ignored their pleas.

He’s reminded of all of this and suddenly, he feels calm.

The doors open and Till realises that he’s come to accept Ivan’s fate but he has not come to accept his own, the fate of a boy who had realised too late his own infatuation.

He’s come to accept that he can do nothing drastic to save Ivan, nor himself, from the larger forces at play and so he smiles. He faces Ivan and he smiles.

Isn’t it strange how the butterfly effect works? It does not have to be a deliberate action, instead sometimes it can be the shifting of tides and the changing of emotions that enacts a ripple large enough to spur a wave and drown a town.

One thing leads to another and like dominoes it compiles until the wave is overwhelming and threatening to drown them all. Later, Till will find out that it was his smile that had caused Ivan a brief pause before it was his cue to enter the stage. It was his smile, ethereal and stripped bare of any emotion but adoration that allowed Ivan to stop for the few seconds he needed to hear the sounds of people echoing through the vents.

All it had taken was a smile and Ivan was breaking the emergency alarm and stalking onto stage behind Till, a different kind of determination in his steps. Till had accepted his fate, his unending cycle of doom and had instead made a resolution to make the most of it. At least he could see Ivan like this, unlike if he were to die and the loop were to end. Coming to terms with Ivan’s death and his own suffering bought him a strange kind of peace.

If he could truly do nothing to stop it, shouldn’t he savour the last moments they have together?

Every rainfall would remind him of the other, every melancholy song and rhythmic beating of his own heart. It would all be a bittersweet reminder that he had been given the chance to know Ivan and experience his love and what could be more worth it than that?

He’d been a victim to emotions he didn’t want to shoulder, to feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge, and yet he’d opened his heart to them despite not wanting to. He’d allowed himself to feel and to forgive. A smile shared with the one he’d come to forgive, it was nothing more than that and yet it made all the difference.

Like always the rain beat down harshly on what little skin was exposed, his shirt soaked and clinging to his body in a manner that used to make him uncomfortable but now just made him feel alive. He sang with a soft acceptance of the scene he knew would play out, like the lines on the back of his hands and the feeling of Ivan’s lips on his own, he knew it all by heart.

He knew it all by heart but wasn’t Ivan’s kiss a little less desperate today? A little more suffocating in its compassion?

Ivan grabbed ahold of him and he went to push him away but thumbs stroked his face and hands angled his head up, “distract them with me.” Ivan whispered.

A break in the pattern. A skip in Tills racing heart. With no time to process why or how Till allowed for himself to be swallowed up in Ivan’s devotion. Hands holding him close and tongue licking into his mouth, he felt heat warm the back of his neck as he flushed from the attention.

That’s when he heard it. The screaming.

Instinctively, without thinking, Till pushed Ivan hard and with wild eyes he went to block him from the bullets he expected to be coming. But, nothing. Nothing came and instead he saw smoke and through the smoke the orange glow of fire.

“Just as I expected.” Ivan says.

“What do you mean?” Till asks before he can stop himself. Mentally berating himself as he takes hold of one of Ivan’s hands, much to his surprise, and pulls him back towards where they came.

“I heard them earlier, just before I followed you out.”

“You…” Till doesn’t finish his sentence, instead detouring them away from the door and towards where he knows a getaway vehicle will be waiting for Hyuna and the others. He’d played this route, served his time trying desperately to enact their rescue mission. Of course it worked for Ivan, it had to be that way didn’t it? If Ivan didn’t want to save himself, truly save himself then what could Till truly do to stop it? All he could do was accept the inevitable and let the day play out like it was supposed to, despite his selfish wish for something else.

“Something happened.” Till mentions as he tugs Ivan’s hand, deathly white his grip.

Confusion clouds Ivan’s voice, “now I’m the one who’s lost.”

“Something happened that made you lag behind, what was it?” Till asks, unable to help himself, shoving Ivan into the car first before following.

He can hear the sounds of others behind them, smell the burning of wires and taste Ivan’s lips still on his own as he nervously works his bottom lip between his teeth.

Ivan pulls him in close, their sides pressed together, hands still intertwined. “There’s something different about you.” Ivan instead says as others pile into the car, barking orders.

“Answer me first.” Till shoots back, his pride and resilience something of which returns to him in moments he is with Ivan.

Warmth. It is the word Till would later use to describe how Ivan looked at him in that moment. It is the word he would use later to describe how he felt pressed against Ivan, the feeling surrounding his heart and making his skin hot to touch.

“You smiled at me.” Ivan tells him.

Till cannot help but stare, a choked laugh escaping him as he doubles over himself and feels himself start to cry. “A smile huh?”

There’s an arm around him and a hand on his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, shielding him from the onlookers. “Your turn.” Ivan whispers to him. A distraction, Till recognises it for what it is and is thankful that he knows Ivan, selfishly he allows himself to thank whatever deity had intervened and given him the time to mourn Ivan, himself and the love they almost lost.

“Something different about me?” Till confirms with Ivan, looking up and meeting his eyes. Haggard they stare back with fondness that Till wants to capture and not let go of.

“It’s a bit of a long story, but I can tell you how it ends.” Till speaks softly as the world behind them disappears in a blur and the desert stretches out in front of them.

Ivan nods.

“I’ve fallen for you.” Till says, his answer accompanied by a small smile, relief overwhelming him.

Worry bleeds from his form as he allows himself to properly collapse against the comforting solid presence that Ivan offers him because he knows that the loop has stopped, the aching in his chest is gone and his heart no longer feels like it is carrying the weight of the world. Instead, he feels it beating in time with Ivan’s, lulling himself into the first restful sleep he’s had in a very long time.