Work Text:
Till was twelve, at the beginning.
He was bent in front of a piece of paper, his tongue peaking between his lips as he scribbled furiously over the page. Ivan sat beside him with a book cracked open, his bangs falling in front of his narrowed eyes.
In their own worlds yet still caught in each other’s orbits, as they often seemed to be lately.
Ivan groaned quietly, backing his head onto the tree with a quiet thump. He looked dejected, solemnly glancing at the fake sun overhead. His eyes held a wariness Till never saw in them, nothing hidden over with his typical expression of blank pleasantry.
“Why do you look like that?” Till poked Ivan’s side harshly with the tip of his pencil, only earning a small frown in return.
“Every book is boring,” Ivan complained, his book dangling between his fingers, threatening to fall. “They’re all so predictable.”
Till rolled his eyes. He didn’t need to hear about how smart Ivan was, how he could guess the ending of a book by the first fifty pages, how his intellect and perfection weighed on him so much. He turned back to his drawing and ignored him.
Ivan peered over his shoulder, pressed against his side. He didn’t comment on the work, but Till could feel his judgement radiating off of him.
“Tell me a story.”
Till’s eye twitched. “What?”
Ivan grinned impishly, resting his chin against Till’s shoulder precariously. “You should tell me a story.”
“No.” Till scowled, then added, “Get off me.”
Ivan accepted the shove, limply swaying along with the movement of Till's palm. An endless push and pull, the two of them. He sat upright and didn’t attempt to shove back.
He kept quiet, as though a single word would be enough to chase Till off, and stared.
It was weird and off-putting, but Till was used to it by this point. Ivan wasn’t something to be explained–it was doubtful that there were even words in existing lexicon to explain him–so Till ignored it. He continued doodling, even when the eyes left him and went back to words on yellowing pages.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
“Will you come to the library with me?” Ivan asked one afternoon, bent over and forcing himself into Till’s frame of view.
His fringe hung in front of his face from that angle, hiding the way his eyelashes swooped over his pupils and brushed against his cheeks. Till couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you have nothing better to do.” Ivan pointed at the flower crown he was disassembling and reassembling, crushed petals scattering the grass beneath it, fallen innocents at the hands of Till’s boredom.
Till didn’t bother to respond, picking himself up and following Ivan with hunched shoulders. He knew a losing battle when he saw one.
The library was cramped, dark, and coated with a thick layer of dust that came with only having one visitor. The shelves were stuffed past their capacity, books threatening to spill onto the floor, yet they were all organized alphabetically. It was so distinctly Ivan, it was almost unbearable.
Ivan wandered to the back, Till following like a lost child, and finally grabbed the book he was looking for. Something with a grey hardback cover, the edges fraying and the spine cracked.
They sat in the back of the room, where a small bay window allowed a moderate amount of light to filter in. Ivan read and Till… well, he watched.
He supposed he could also find a book, lay it open the way Ivan did so easily, and let himself get absorbed in the words detailing another world. But he wasn’t Ivan.
“What’s it about?” he finally asked, when the sounds of his thoughts became louder than the wind blowing outside the window.
“A detective,” Ivan replied, his eyes still on the page. “He solves murders.”
Till frowned. “Why does he care?” The, people are murdered all the time, went unsaid.
Ivan shrugged.
“It’s a bit boring, though.” He leaned into Till’s space, holding the book out in front of him. “It would probably be more interesting if you read it to me.”
Till's eyebrow twitched. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not a baby.”
Ivan gave him a funny look. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s–you’re–ugh.” If Till had been holding anything, he would have thrown it at Ivan. “Just read the damn book.”
Ivan searched Till's face, unnerving in the way only he pulled off, and didn't say anything. Then, because it was all he knew, he listened.
“Why are you always bothering me?”
“Because I like spending time with you.”
“Oh.”
Ivan watched him quietly, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Will you tell me a story?”
“No.”
Ivan was sick.
It didn’t make much sense–it was the peak of summer, the sun shining lazily as sweat dripped down their backs–but nothing about Ivan followed any sort of reason, so he was isolated, coughing until his throat went raw.
Till sat outside his door and listened, cheek pressed against the cold surface. He should have been out playing like everyone else, but his only other friends were Mizi and Sua, and they seemed to be exclusively a duo these days. So he sat, alone but not quite.
After a particularly bad coughing fit, Till finally gave into his restlessness and knocked. He peeked his head in hesitantly, fingers wrapped around the edge of the door.
Ivan didn’t seem to notice him, his head rested against the pillow as he stared at the ceiling, nose pink and eyes watery. He looked miserable.
“Ivan?” Till ventured, stepping a bit further into the room.
Ivan looked up then, his eyes a fraction wider. “Till?” he mumbled hopefully.
“It’s me.” He clenched his fists. Unclenched. “Are you okay?”
A pause. “Yes–yeah, I’m fine,” Ivan answered, hoarse. “You can go away.”
Ivan knew him better than anyone ever would. The inner mechanisms of Till’s mind seemed to be spread out in front of Ivan, complete with a manual and instructions. Every mannerism and behavior documented, laminated, and stored away neatly for safekeeping. Till was certain no one else would hold the keys in such a way, so tightly.
But Till knew Ivan, too. And that had to account for something.
“Be quiet,” Till huffed, marching over to Ivan’s side and sitting on the edge of the bed. He poked the dark spot under Ivan’s eye. “You look horrible.”
Ivan beamed. “I know.”
Till scowled. “You're so weird.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just agree with everything I say.”
“Okay.”
Till groaned. “You’re so–ugh. Why did I even come here?” (Because he had nowhere else to go, but he wouldn’t say that.)
Ivan grabbed his wrist, his eyes widening as he did so, as if he surprised himself. “Please stay.”
The request was startling. Ivan was selfish in many ways; he took, he held, and he kept with little regard. But he scarcely pleaded. He kept his desires close to his chest, leaving them unknown to the outside world. Yet here he was, asking Till to stay.
This wasn’t a revelation meant for Till. Not yet.
“Aren’t you bored?” Till asked, ignoring the strange knot in his gut. “Do you need something?”
Ivan’s eyes glinted, something knowing, and somehow Till got the feeling he’d just lost. “You could tell me a story.”
Till bit his lip, struggling with the instinctual urge to refuse him. But, despite never having been taught manners or any typical kindnesses expected from the world, he knew not to deny a man on his deathbed.
“Fine,” he bit out. Ivan simply grinned.
“Once upon a time, er, there was a boy.” Till wrinkled his nose. “And one day, he–um, he met a girl.”
Ivan quirked his lips. “You’re bad at this.”
“Shut up.”
Till wasn’t a storyteller. He created worlds on paper, he sang to please, but he didn’t tell. The process of turning ideas into words was foreign and complicated, a task for a better man. The microcosms of his heart were locked away, an unyielding beast that refused to be tamed, startling whenever someone tapped on the glass. His soul was small and not one to be told.
Yet, for Ivan, he still tried.
After all, everything had to start from somewhere.
Till woke up in the middle of the night with a new body in his bed. It ought to have been startling, something worthy of a flinch and misplaced kick, but Till could only muster the energy to turn his head and face Ivan’s wide eyes.
“Sorry,” Ivan whispered. He was on his side, tucked into himself and small. “Did I wake you?”
“Yes,” Till grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. The room was still drenched in darkness, the stars peeking through the window. “You have your own bed.”
“I can’t sleep.”
Maybe a few days ago, Till would have kicked him out. Ivan was often afflicted with bouts of restlessness, that didn’t mean he had the right to prevent Till from sleeping, as well. But, strangely, Till couldn't find it in himself to mind.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Ivan stared at him. He didn’t speak up for quite a bit, the moment stretching until Till considered rolling away and going back to sleep. Then he sucked in a quiet breath.
“Tell me a story?”
Till groaned softly, but there was no real heat to it. Somehow, he had suspected this would happen.
Ivan frowned hesitantly, as if bracing himself to be laughed at or scolded. Till didn’t doubt that he would have done so not long ago. Now, though, he looked into Ivan’s piercing eyes and felt himself wanting to pull at the corners of his lips, just so he wouldn’t look so sad.
He rolled fully onto his side, his knees knocking against Ivan's. He watched expectantly, eyes unblinking as he curled in on himself.
“Mizi told me this one a couple days ago,” Till whispered, hushed in the quiet of the room. Ivan listened with bated breath. “Once, on a far off planet, there was a young girl…”
Till continued, reciting the story as best as he remembered until Ivan’s breathing began to slow, his eyelids flickering before closing with the weight of sleep. Till listened to the steady lull of his breath and his own limbs grew heavy, slumber flirting with his consciousness.
The two fell asleep quickly, arms wrapped around each other under Till’s thin blanket.
They wouldn’t speak about it when they woke, but they would know. Maybe that was the whole point.
Till picked a fight. He thrashed and he swore, biting at the hands of his captors until he was locked up and thrown away.
The collar was tight around his throat, his face beaten and bruised. It hurt, his body ached.
He sat alone in the dark with nothing but pain to keep him company. If he paid attention, he could hear faint footsteps outside the door, brief whispers of conversation.
For a moment, some seemed to stop in front of his room, a breath beyond the threshold.
Then the door slowly creaked open. Till flinched. He was being quiet, they shouldn't be back yet.
“Till?” whispered a familiar voice and Till looked up through watery eyes.
“Ivan?”
Ivan didn’t respond, making quick strides towards Till’s side. He reached his hands up to Till’s neck, cold on his bruised skin.
“I’m going to take off your collar. Don’t move.”
Till did as he was told, the fight gone from his tired limbs. He held still as Ivan’s fingers nimbly played at the sides of his restraint, watching as Ivan’s eyes narrowed in focus.
It’s funny, really, he never did understand how Ivan did that–how he knew in the first place. It was another secret Ivan kept from him, held just out of reach and used to taunt him. Another piece of proof that Till would never be like Ivan–perfect, ideal.
He wondered how Ivan could look at him and still care.
The collar released with a click, Till’s neck finally free. He sucked in a harsh breath of air, grasping for his raw throat as coughs cascaded through his body.
Ivan reached forward, grabbing Till’s wrist and pressing against his pulse point–more for his own surety than Till’s. “Did they hurt you?”
Till swiped at his nose, aware of the dried blood there. “No more than usual.”
His head swam, vaguely making out Ivan’s form in the dark. He wasn’t sure how long he had been here, how long it had taken Ivan to find out. He wondered if it even mattered.
Then Ivan hugged him, sending Till a few steps backwards with the force of it. He froze under his arms, unsure what to do with Ivan’s nose nestled between the crook of his shoulder and neck.
They didn’t do this. If Ivan touched him, it was short, a brief moment where he forgot to stop himself. A stolen bit of time where Till managed to be pliable under his palms. His receiving embrace was always a punch to the face.
Intimacy wasn’t something Till familiarized himself with. Not like he could, when Ivan seemed content to take beatings as kisses and Mizi danced alone with Sua. He was a caged animal, one to be watched and one to bare its fangs in the presence of anything new. He stood in the face of the unknown and could only glower back.
Carefully, Till returned the hug.
It was silent for a long moment, the only noise their breaths mingling with flickering heartbeats. Briefly, Till felt like he’d been set on fire.
“What happened?” Ivan mumbled from Till’s shoulder, barely a whisper.
Till understood the question for what it was: tell me your story. Till’s brokenness was just another mystery to be solved, if only Ivan could finish the next couple pages. Maybe then he would understand, with just a bit more information. And then he could move on.
Till hoped that day would never come.
“Nothing,” Till whispered, and held on tighter.
They could explain later. When Till’s voice came back, he could dress the tale up for Ivan, just enough to keep him guessing. Keep him coming back. Ivan would complain, argue Till was being unfair. Then he’d do something annoying, maybe take Till’s pencils again, and the cycle would repeat.
Later. Now, Ivan was here and that was all that mattered.
When Ivan left, all Till could do was sit in silence and wait to be escorted out.
His cuffs stung, the collar beeped red.
He kept his mouth shut and only hoped Ivan would listen when he managed to open it again.
“I feel like you’re a star,” Till mumbled one night, sprawled on the grass next to Ivan, looking up at the night sky.
The scene seemed to become a familiar one for the two of them, stolen moments together as the moon looked on. Vulnerability only visible after dark. When no one was around to hear, Ivan allowed himself to speak. With their visions obscured, Till was finally able to see.
Ivan rolled onto his side, a small smile stretched onto his face.
“What does that mean?”
Ivan was beyond describing. He represented a vision no one would ever reach, a model flaunted above the other children to describe all that they lacked. He rarely got punished, infallible under their gaze, small and easy to hold.
But here, Till saw the beginnings of a person. Sewn and stitched together, but human nonetheless. Ivan could carve his heart into pieces and hand them each to Till separately, but he smiled and his tooth still snagged on his lip.
Till watched Ivan and always found eyes looking back.
“You seem so unreachable, but in the end, you’re just as real as the rest of us,” Till said, struggling to find the words. He splayed his hands above him, tracing the patterns left in the sky as if trying to map the constellations. Maybe he could capture them, doodle in the margins, and hand it to Ivan to hang up.
Ivan kept quiet, watching Till decorate the air. He held so much in the pools of his eyes, whole worlds Till wished he could pick out and draw. Maybe if they were visible on paper, Ivan would be more keen to share.
“Do you like stars?” Ivan asked quietly, barely louder than the rustling of leaves around them.
Till paused. “Yes?”
He thought on it. In reality, he’s scarcely seen actual stars. The projections above them were pretty, though they lacked in any real substance–a synthetic reality manufactured to keep them compliant.
Yet here he was, comparing Ivan to orbital bodies and truly seeing him for the first time. Weren’t the constellations supposed to be a guide? That was the crux of it all, in the end.
“Yes,” Till firmly settled on. The pleased grin on Ivan’s face was small enough to miss.
“When we leave, Till,” Ivan said, and suddenly it’s terrifying, startling and shockingly real. “When we run away from this place, I will pull the stars from the sky and hold them out for you. You will see.”
And Till believed him. It was a disaster waiting to happen–the way he so readily felt his heart set aflame. He wondered how long it would take to swallow him whole.
And it’s just like that, Till was waiting for the countdown to end. Something imminent looming overhead, a single strike of the clock away.
Till waited, held his breath as Ivan pulled him along, and wondered how soon the moment would come.
They ran, hand in hand underneath a falling sky.
They’re panting and laughing, steps leading them to a destination he didn’t know, but it’s exhilarating. They’re running and they’re rebelling, the two of them throwing off the world. This might be his greatest act of defiance.
The meteors danced with them, painting their story across the sky. Gone, the two of them, but at least the stars were there to witness it, carve it into the cave walls and mold history. He giggled and he didn’t know what to do with it.
But there was time. At the edge of the world, there was no limit. He could trace the corners of the universe, frame the galaxy, and leave his mark on the burning world behind him. Ivan would follow beside him, a memory of all that they left, a reminder of their future.
Though that was it, wasn’t it? A futile abandonment–their final disappearing act. In a world like that, what better would that make him than their suppressors?
Till let go.
Ivan stumbled. He watched Till with eyes blown wide, like a vision he was waiting to see, a reality he already expected. Maybe it was.
“Till?”
Till hesitated. His hands were cold, lacking in company. The unknown lied ahead, a destination void of everything he ever knew.
“We can’t leave everyone,” Till found himself saying, voice stretched thin between them.
“You can’t have it both ways.” Ivan’s voice came out harsh, the only defense he had. “You can’t play God, Till."
Ivan knew him. That much was apparent. He tended to every flower that grew between the concrete of Till’s heart, caring and giving until he had nothing left.
But surely he must know the harshness of Till’s attention, thorns wrapped around his hands.
“If we leave now, they’ll probably just find us again. It won’t change anything.”
Till was afraid. He had no other way to put it. He didn’t know what roamed ahead, what new pains awaited them. Ivan stared and he wondered if he’d already seen them.
“You don’t know that!” Ivan accused, voice breaking between words.
In the end, they were still children. Unreasonable and hurt, immature when the situation needed it least. Ivan carried the world on his shoulders without a word of complaint, but his soul still bruised with the weight of it. Like that would fix them.
Till was tired of believing in fairytales.
“This isn’t a book! We won’t magically find a happy ending!”
Till was ready to turn on his heel, sprint back to what he already knew. It was selfish. It was all he knew how to do.
“Tell me a story, Till!” Ivan shouted, his voice hitching when he hit his name. His lip quivered in an effort not to cry. “Tell me why you never choose me.”
Till faltered.
This world wasn’t written for them. They lived under the fake skies of beings who orbited around themselves and worshipped no god but the success of their conquests. A world where they were props for a larger narrative, doomed to obscurity.
Yet Ivan took to the page and tried to write his own ending. It was never if with him. Every tale a promise, signed and sealed with a kiss, handed to Till with startling sincerity. A fleeting glimpse of hope Till desperately wished he’d forget.
Though, in the end, Ivan was only human. He still shackled and bruised the same as the rest of them, still bled in the face of his failures. As much as he tried, he would never be more than flesh and bone.
Ivan could not save them. Their fates had been planned, long ago.
Till turned and did not stay to see how this chapter ended.
“What are you reading?”
Ivan regarded him coldly, as if he were one of the other children attempting to prod. As if he didn’t know Till like an open wound. As if he hadn’t held his heart in his hands for Till, always giving more and more until he bled out with nothing but a smile on his face.
“Nothing.”
He turned. Till stood above him, waiting for red pupils to meet his own. They never did.
Till dropped to a seat. He watched. Then, the only way he knew how, he pleaded. He leaned against Ivan’s back, arms looped clumsily around his chest, and he gave. Allowed himself to bleed out and hoped Ivan would only accept.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. It wasn’t enough, but it was all Till had.
The wind rustled around them, shaking the leaves gently above them and blowing their hair in their faces. The blooming flowers drifted in the breeze, guileless lifeforms following the push of forces out of their control.
Maybe out of the garden, flowers wouldn’t need to obey the whims of the wind.
Silently, Ivan stirred.
“I know.”
Something shifted, then.
Maybe it was Till continuing his apology, maybe it was a bond grown from losing the same future, maybe it wasn't anything at all. But they grew close. Possibly closer than before.
It was odd, how almost losing him made Till latch on tighter. In another world, maybe Ivan wouldn’t have come back with him. Till would have been left to pick up the pieces of his betrayal, cold shards of glass bleeding into his palms. And really, wasn’t that a terrifying thought.
“I brought a book,” Ivan said, the early morning sun greeting them at their usual meeting spot. Ivan beamed when he saw him and Till truly wished he knew how Ivan could still bear him.
Till grabbed the book, examined the cover. Nothing he could have recognized, but he still cracked it open and began to read.
That never ended. Ivan promised to forgive him with the retelling of a book and Till thought he’d read forever if only Ivan stayed by his side. So he did, reciting prose until his mouth went dry, delving through lines until his throat ran out of words.
He didn’t know when he began holding Ivan so close, a special section of his mind dedicated to him–like Mizi had been once. He wondered if their small ecosystem thrived as Mizi and Sua’s did, wondered what that meant for him.
In the end, not much changed. Ivan still watched him, holding him in his gaze and recording him to memory. Yet now, Till found himself looking back.
In a startling shock of clarity, he realized it–oh. All he saw was Ivan.
“Are you alright?” Ivan nudged, settling himself against Till’s side. He fit in the space perfectly, like it was carved out for him, reserved and labeled with his name.
Till felt his face burn. “Yes. Yeah, I’m fine.”
And that was the gist of it, wasn’t it? Till wasn’t anything special–always someone’s other half, never the brightest, never the one chosen. But Ivan looked at him, truly saw him, and Till thought maybe that wasn’t so bad.
Because it had always been Ivan.
Till wondered how he could watch himself fall, despite knowing the way this would play out. He saw his heart drop into the chasms below and didn’t know if he would ever reach the bottom.
“Don’t you want to go hang out with Mizi?”
Till stilled, fingers halting as they twisted flowers together into a crown.
“No, it’s okay.” Till weaved in the last flower and placed the finished crown on Ivan’s head. “I’m hanging out with you.”
Ivan stared.
“Oh.”
He wouldn’t tell anyone, but Ivan loved fairy tales. Till knew this. No matter how much he hid behind stories of history and unspoken horror, he smiled the most when the princess found her true love. Complained the least when the power of good prevailed over evil.
Till thought of this as Ivan laid his head in his lap, a book open between his hands.
“And with true love’s kiss, they lived happily ever after,” Till read aloud, a whisper in the dark. Two lone souls and the moon, caught in liminality. “The end.”
Ivan hummed, turning his head around to look Till in the eyes. He reached up, pulling at a stray lock of grey hair there. He breathed, and the world exhaled around him.
It made sense for the universe to comply to Ivan’s every whim, float around him like he was its creator. He was the center of all that which he graced, the axis that laid the difference between good and bad; the tipping point. Till had once been bitter about that. Now, he wasn’t quite sure.
In the stillness of the night, they had all the time in the world. They existed in a plane without the Stage or the Segyein, wherein all that mattered was the prospect of their creation. Till would paint the stars across the sky and Ivan would pluck them out for him, place them in his mouth and let them dissolve on his tongue.
“If we kiss, do you think we’ll get a happy ending?” Ivan mumbled quietly, his eyelids drooping with the weight of staying open. His frown held years of unspoken hurt, scars cut underneath his eyes. It was an offer, Till knew that.
It was so tempting to say yes. The promise of a quick fix, something to save them from their demise. A rewrite. Maybe if Till bent forward, pressed his lips against Ivan’s and held him close, the credits would roll and bells would chime their everlasting melody. But they didn’t get happy endings.
They didn’t get happy endings.
Till leaned down and kissed him anyway.
There wasn't much to do when you were approaching the end. The stage was set, awaiting their final symphony. Ivan and Till understood this.
Still, they laid next to each other, hand in hand under the fake stars of the garden.
They didn’t speak, there was no point. Words would only complicate things. Voices whispering reminders of a song, something clattering until it ended without warning.
So Till was content to sit in Ivan’s presence, run his thumb along the bridge of his knuckles and marvel at the pressure of his pulse. Steady underneath Till’s pattering heart rate.
A while ago, Till had been sure they weren’t made of the same stuff. Perhaps, if Ivan were to cry, jewels would fall from his eyes and be fitted as rings. If he bled, it was sure to be ichor–any lost limb to be replaced by gold.
But Ivan’s veins were filled with crimson. He took the blood and wrote love letters on the wall, i’s dotted with hearts as he handed his wounds to Till. And Till took them, bandaged them and placed kisses against the scars.
They were puzzle pieces that didn’t fit, two opposite ends of a pole, the ones that were never meant to succeed. But everything had to come from somewhere–nothing the birthplace of something. One day they would look back on their creations and realize it was all for each other.
Together, they were something.
This was their story.
Ivan fell.
Red leaked from the corners of his mouth and all Till could do was watch as he hit the ground.
He laid there, in a growing pool of his own blood, dimming eyes set on Till. Like always. Always watching, always listening. Like Till was the center of his universe, what he always came back to. Maybe he was.
The sob in Till’s throat was abrupt. He didn’t realize the tears until he was on his knees, desperate hands roaming over a bloodied body. His fingers twitched, his brain lagged. He finally settled on cradling Ivan’s head, heavy in his arms.
“You moron!” he shouted, because anger was the easiest thing to latch onto. “Why did you do that?”
Ivan coughed, splattering specks of red across Till’s front. “Till.”
“What?!” Till wept, clenching his fists into damp, black hair.
“Tell me a story.”
“What?”
Ivan grinned, weak. Quietly, he mumbled, “Please.”
Till grit his teeth, breathing harshly as he felt Ivan’s pleads like a pierce to the heart. His eyes stung.
“I–I don’t-” Till bit down on the denials harshly. There wasn’t room for that anymore. Till searched his paling face for something, anything. There were no answers, no guide written in the stars of Ivan’s eyes.
Then he sighed, something that stumbled out of him. “O-okay.”
Weakly, Ivan smiled. It seemed to take the world of him, his chest hitching. Till clutched him tighter.
“Once, there were two boys,” he started, voice cracking. “Th-they did everything together. They ran up a hill, holding hands, and watched the stars.”
Ivan listened silently, a small smile on his face. Normally it would have been teasing. Till would have yelled at him, told him to shut up and let him speak. Now that was gone.
“But one of them fell. He closed his eyes and–he…” No one had warned Till how much this would ache. “And–Ivan, I can't.”
He broke into a sob, leaning over Ivan's limp form. His breaths came out as wheezes, choking on the blood that filled his lungs.
“Ivan,” the name felt like a gunshot, struck right between his ribs and lodged in his heart. “I never even got to tell you… I-I didn’t–I didn't even realize-”
He cut himself off with a wail. There was nothing else to do, Ivan’s eyes were dulling and each breath came slower than the last. Till felt like he was drowning on misery, slowly suffocating himself in his despair.
“Don’t go,” Till mumbled, tears falling in his mouth and mixing with his words. “I didn’t finish the story. Don’t go.”
With shaky hands, Ivan brushed a strand of Till’s hair from his face. He smiled, red painting his lips.
“Thank you, Till,” he said, as best he could.
And his eyes fell shut.
“No!” Till shouted, shaking Ivan’s unmoving body. “Ivan, you can’t. Then they lived happily ever after. Don’t go. He woke up and they lived happily ever after.”
Till touched him, leaving smears of blood along Ivan’s paling face. “He woke up. They lived happily ever after. They lived happily ever after and he woke up.”
His hands shook, body wracking violently with his sobs. He repeated the words like a mantra.
He would wake up.
They would live happily ever after.
Ivan died in his arms that night. His pages torn out of the book, cast into the fire. Till watched the chapter end, his bloody fingers grasping uselessly as guards dragged him away from the body. He kicked and screamed, but it was no use.
No one told him their conclusion would be so abrupt. It happened, and it meant something to someone, and the world moved on. But his blood stained Till’s skin and surely some things were meant to last forever.
He couldn’t let it all mean nothing.
Yet, in the end, it did.
~
Fin.