Work Text:
There’s a stranger in the park who doesn’t feel like a stranger, but Ivan knows he's never seen him before.
He’s handsome, sun-kissed and short-sleeved. The eraser shavings on the bench around him are indicative of his efforts to sketch the surroundings.
Ivan passes by him and thinks nothing of it.
Later that night, he gets an itch in his throat.
It’s not the worst thing in the world. He texts his manager that he’s not feeling well. I’ll go to a clinic in the morning and get it checked out.
He gets some decent sleep, but in the morning, his cough has gotten worse. Ivan finds no sense in panicking, at least until he vomits up something, staring at the floor in concern.
Flower petals.
Truthfully, Ivan thought this kind of disease was the stuff of urban legend.
He takes himself to the emergency room, unwilling to risk undue escalation. His vitals are fine. A doctor assures him that his lungs haven’t been taken over. “It would be in your best interests to confess, young man. Heartbreak is temporary. Organ damage is permanent.”
There’s only one problem: Ivan isn’t in love with anyone.
He has always found romance boring. Dreadfully distracting. He had gone on a few dates to see what all the fuss was about, but he had gone flat and nonverbal halfway through. His partners politely suggested that they shouldn’t meet again.
There’s only one thing, one person, who's caught his attention in recent days and Ivan had seen him for all of five minutes.
Is that really all it takes? Love at first sight? Ivan thinks to himself sardonically.
It’s not as if he has any particular attachment to life, but it seems especially stupid to die for someone whose name he doesn’t even know.
Never mind the fact that he felt a lull of déjà vu when he glanced at that particular stranger.
He’s in luck—or perhaps it’s misfortune. The following day, he walks to the park again. Ash-blonde hair fills his vision. A poppy threatens to bubble from his lips. “Do you mind if I sit here?” Ivan asks, pointing to the empty space on the bench.
The stranger hums. Ivan lowers himself.
The breeze ruffles through their hair.
Out of Ivan’s periphery, he watches the stranger sketch. It’s phenomenal artwork, really. He wonders if this man covered in piercings, focused with a pencil between his fingers, is a professional.
“You didn’t like landscapes, before,” Ivan says.
He startles himself, frightened by the off-color comment.
Slowly, the stranger puts his sketchbook down. “You’re right. I didn't. How did you know that?”
“I don’t know,” Ivan confesses. It is the honest-to-god truth.
“…Have we met?”
“Probably not.”
Still, he says his name. Ivan. Ivan tells him that if that was a guess, it was a good one. “I’m Till,” Till says.
I know, some part of Ivan thinks, stems creeping up his throat.
They talk more often after that. The disease is remarkably well-behaved when they speak. It's as if Till is both the cause and the cure for his pain.
He looks up the meaning of the flowers as they continue to sap his energy.
Sleep. Peace. Death. They are remarkably red flowers with black centers, winsome when bundled in wrapping paper.
Ivan's fingers are clumsy, but he attempts to make a bracelet. One afternoon, he wears it around his wrist.
“That doesn’t seem like your style,” Till says.
Ivan shrugs. “It was this or pressing them into bookmarks.”
At the rate he’s going, Ivan has three months to live. A transplant could help, but Ivan doesn’t bother to put himself on the list. After all, if he didn’t deal with disease at its roots, the problem would never truly be solved.
If he’s in love with Till—or his soul is, if the spiritualist forums are to be believed—Ivan would like to enjoy their time together before he is converted into nutrients for the flora eating him from the inside out.
“You like flowers this time?” Till asks.
This time and before keep creeping into their conversations. Neither of them can explain why they say those words, where the information comes from, but they chalk it up to intuition.
“I liked flowers last time.”
Till snorts. He is beautiful when he smiles.
“I’ll bring you some tomorrow if you’re here.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Just like that, they settle into a routine. Ivan coughs up flowers until tears spring into his eyes. Till’s deft hands make him bracelets and crowns vastly superior to Ivan's own, so well-woven they deserved to be sold.
Selfishly, Ivan hoards them. He researches how to preserve dead flowers.
When he’s gone, he wants to be surrounded by these soft memories.
Their conversations run long. When Till asks Ivan if he would like to get coffee, the temperature dropping as they slide into autumn, Ivan trails behind him like a puppy.
It becomes harder and harder to do even the most menial tasks. His agent is worried about how much weight he’s lost.
He ignores their concern. Everyone’s concern, including Till’s.
Until the problem can no longer be ignored.
Ivan chokes on the flowers, spitting out so many he could make a bouquet. “I thought you bought them,” Till shouts hysterically, dialing an ambulance with shaky fingers. “Oh god, Ivan. Don’t do this. Please don’t do this to me again.”
Again. Ivan chuckles humorlessly. “I’m glad I was able to be nice to you this time.”
Till’s lashes grow wet with tears. Ivan passes out with blood and flower petals on his lips. The EMTs give him CPR to get the oxygen flowing.
He’s rushed into surgery. By the time he opens his eyes, the ceiling is clinically white.
Ivan expects to be alone. That’s why it’s a surprise to find someone else’s hands over his own.
There are prominent bags under Till's eyes. He’s pale. He's exhausted.
Ivan reaches out to touch Till’s hair to see if it’s as soft as he ‘remembers’ it being and he gets his wrist snatched.
Bloodshot eyes open. “Do you love me?” Till whispers, lips wobbling. “Don’t lie. You’re not allowed to die.”
Ivan laughs. It hurts. Everything hurts. “The doctors believe I do.”
Till clasps Ivan's hands tightly, visibly shaking. “Okay…okay.”
Ivan's condition stabilizes a few days later. Unrequited love with acknowledgement is better than nothing, a nurse advises.
Till is mad at him for keeping this a secret. He makes a habit out of grabbing Ivan’s hand whenever he can, leaning on his shoulder when they sit on the park bench together.
“Do you still love me?” Till asks, listening to the rattle in Ivan’s chest.
“I’m afraid so.”
He loves Till—but it becomes easier to breathe.
He loves Till—and maybe Till doesn’t love Ivan the way Ivan loves him, but that's okay.
The poppies spill on and on and on. They are a holdover from a previous life, a sign that he will never move on.
It’s a daunting thing to realize, but Ivan is not upset.
Till is alive. Ivan clings to life.
For a brief moment in time, he is happy.