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Ivan’s voice echoes through the room, its velvet sound gradually quieting until there’s only silence. The meticulous, daily practice is all just a means to an end— one that will inevitably lead to the stage. There’s no such passion, not when the end he seeks isn’t as pure. Unlike…
Till.
The clock finally hits six. No matter where Ivan searched in his free time, sneaking past Aliens while they weren’t looking, checking out rooms in his mental map one by one, Till was nowhere to be found since yesterday. Wherever he was dragged to, likely detained or disciplined by his foolish behavior, it was all for naught. But he should be back. He has to be.
Why is the other side of his wall still eerily silent, then?
Dinner be damned, Ivan resigns from the meal despite having already skipped lunch. There’s certainty in his belief of Till being absent still, even without checking the room. Not that he would go knocking. Maybe if they were kids— but not now.
This is why Ivan almost doesn’t believe his eyes once he steps out of the room, his back turned towards the direction he should be heading to the canteen, instead facing the other way, catching the door clicking shut after Till. Till, who’s just… left his room, staggering.
Ivan schools his brief surprise. The mask slots on naturally, even though Till isn’t looking. He is preoccupied with remaining upright as his legs slowly drag on the floor, one hand on the wall, nails carelessly digging into the concrete. They’re both wearing the same uniform, yet there’s a stark contrast: pristine versus dirty, both white, yet only one of them still resembles the plainness they’re wearing daily.
In no time is Ivan next to Till, noting a few stray, dried droplets of blood under the stretched-out collar. Dark eyes bore into the boy with utmost scrutiny, waiting to be snapped at. But Till doesn’t spare him a glance— nothing out of the ordinary. His lack of attention differs though, as if stuck out of reality. A bead of sweat runs down his flushed face, between an open mouth and a relatively fresh bruise. There’s more under the collar, like imprints from huge digits. Purple spills out of a sleeve of the hand clutching onto the wall. Ivan catalogs them all, updating his recent count.
“Cantine is the other way,” Ivan informs, unblinking. Waiting.
There should be a quip. A scoff. A snark. An insult.
But Till doesn’t grant him any of it. His hand slides down the wall before his legs give up under him. Ivan steps in front of him just in time to prevent the fall; both arms sneak around Till’s torso, letting the boy’s weight find support on Ivan. The initial touch is more than enough to understand the situation.
Till has fallen sick.
The silver hair is tousled to a degree Ivan hasn’t seen in a while. With his body pliant, Till leans on Ivan’s shoulder, labored breath and a hot forehead Ivan somehow feels burning up through the fabric.
“Sheet,” Till slurs. “I need it.”
The last part is barely recognizable as regular words. Till is warm, too warm against him, and Ivan’s fingertips tingle. He doesn’t remember the last time he could hold Till like this.
Despicable. Thinking about himself, fighting the onslaught of I need you, I don’t deserve you, listen to my heart, break it apart, notice me, push me away, mend my pitiful existence, destroy me until there’s nothing but dust from the fallen pieces of my ugly heart, instead of focusing on Till.
Ivan’s carefully schooled expression wavers, but it’s okay. Till isn’t responsive. He won’t notice.
Before anyone shows up in the corridor, Ivan turns them around, adjusting his grip so that they end side by side. It should be a short trip back, but Till suddenly tries to stop, mumbling. His palm is sweaty where it holds onto Ivan’s uniform, the collar continuously flashing red, teal eyes dull. Ivan could effortlessly pull Till over his shoulder, the difference in strength even more palpable with the shorter boy out of commission. He could throw Till over the shoulder to mess with him, let him kick and punch and scream.
But with Till like this, Ivan would only hold him closer.
“...need it. Need to go,” Till babbles while Ivan opens the door.
Till’s room is in a messy state, just as Ivan remembers it being from the occasional moments he glanced after Till’s disappearing figure, or even more rarely, from walking in. It must have been years.
Pages litter the floor, filled with Till’s adorable chicken scratch handwriting, music notes, doodles, and more fleshed-out drawings, most resembling Mizi. Some parts of the walls are in a similar state, all between spare darkened stains. It creates an illusion of a filled-up room despite it having almost no furniture, its quality a cry for help that repulsive segyein wouldn’t acknowledge.
If only Till submitted.
But he’s the most beautiful when struggling, rebelling for his rightful freedom.
Ivan steers them toward an awful, unkempt bed. He’d take Till to his own room, laid on the softer mattress to cushion his hurting bones, but it’s a dangerous game— the sheets would smell of Till, and it’s an ugly temptation. To use this situation and create a temporary heaven Ivan doesn’t deserve to have. Stepping out of his place where he is meant to be Till’s disdain.
Instead, Ivan detaches the boy from himself and guides him to lie on the bed. His fingers brush the side of Till’s neck, the skin hot under the passing flick of colder digits. They expertly open the collar afterward, focused on Till’s expression; Ivan misses the green dot that disappears the moment the mechanism is unlocked. Teal eyes are half-lidded, the skinny body shivering, mouth parted. Till looks at him— no, past him, as if staring through Ivan.
Even while delirious, Till doesn’t want to look at him. How pitiful.
“Mizi…” Till mumbles, hand lifted, reaching.
Ivan doesn’t pause. He gathers gray hair to the side, brushing away droplets of sweat on the way. Briefly, he thinks about licking it. “When did you eat?” he asks instead.
“Dunno,” Till slurs. “I-I need…
“To not move.”
“My sheet music…”
Ah. That’s how it is. Still, Ivan roughly grabs the duvet and wraps it around Till, yet the trembling doesn’t stop. It’s a state Ivan hasn’t found himself in years. Slums didn’t treat you with kindness, sparing lives selectively. Curling under a medium-sized cardboard while shivering next to a dimming flame, holding a dirty scrap of food you found while feverish yet on alert, only so your stomach wouldn’t collapse entirely.
Unsha pumped a lot of money into him. Ivan barely experienced sickness in the Garden— only in the beginning.
A memory of Till reaches him. Of small hands carding through black hair, Ivan’s head on a soft lap. For the first time, ever, being cradled. Offering comfort through the gentle touch, ignoring the fact that Ivan punched him in the face earlier that day for seemingly no reason.
So kind, so bright. So guileless and full of love— showing it to someone like Ivan.
Turquoise eyes close. Ivan should leave now, yet a twinge of selfishness keeps him rooted in place. Isn’t it alright? Till thinks he’s Mizi. He is asleep now. It’s fine.
Ivan leaves for the canteen shortly after. Then, once his share has been given out, it takes no time for him to slip out of the area. He finds Till in the exact same state he left him. With the plate of food placed aside, Ivan presses the back of his palm to the feverish forehead that seems to be burning against his own skin.
Unexpectedly, Till shifts, trying to nuzzle into the touch, his frown smoothed over ever so slightly. Ivan momentarily freezes because— because Till has never done that. To relax under Ivan’s touch, yes, but never cling to it. Cruelly enough, it’s just the coldness he’s chasing; Ivan leaves his hand in place, though, wanting to linger.
It’s quiet for a while, Till’s labored breathing the only sound filling the spaces. All until his eyes crack open; Ivan’s hand is gone by the time it happens, having been tirelessly fixing his gaze on Till all this time.
“Mizi…”
There it is again. Ivan quietly observes him, quick to note haze that comes after sleep diluting second by second, leaving only sickness at the seams of Till’s consciousness. That’s how Ivan notices the shift in dark aquamarine, the sudden focus, yet it doesn’t prepare him for the next word that leaves Till’s mouth.
“Ivan.”
Silence. Is Till aware of his real presence, or…
“Fuck, I’m seeing things again.”
…Not. Because why would Ivan even be here? To help? Ivan shows his perfected over the years smile, like a flawless, hallucinated image Till’s mind could come up with. After all, Ivan would snicker, drill a finger into a flushed cheek, or press on one of the new, visible bruises. Therefore he doesn’t correct Till and remains seated on the verge of the bed, his real acts concealed deep in his heart. No one needs to know. Till doesn’t need to know.
But for Till’s brain to hallucinate him? What a marvelous feeling.
“Stop smiling,” Till continues. “It’s disturbing.”
Ivan’s lips only stretch wider.
“What, can’t I be in this shit state without my brain turning on me?”
Ah, he’s getting worked up.
“You’re not here. Moron. Idiot.”
How lovely.
Ivan reels in the attention, not noticing the strain of Till’s voice, the feeling in his voice. All that comes to his ears are insults.
“Leave me alone,” Till suddenly quips, harsher, conflicted.
His arm emerges from under the duvet thoughtlessly, aiming at something his head deems imaginary. Yet the second his weak fist connects with real flesh, Till stills. Even while sick, he’s honest and expressive to the bones, wide eyes settled on Ivan. Another droplet of sweat runs down his temple. He heaves, startled, confused.
“Are you— are you real?” A raspy question accompanied by a feeble shove, as if to find the answer himself. The obvious doesn’t come to him easily.
“Am I?” Ivan replies, unable to help himself. Oh, Till is cute when messed with.
Till stares at him intensely, but the image of it isn’t serious while the sickness has taken over his body. His words more brass than usual, more chaotic, thoughtless, even for someone as impulsive as Till. What sort of nonsense can Ivan wring out of him?
“Can you ever stop being annoying and confusing?” Till shoots back his own question. Feisty, angered.
The first epithet is understandable, but the second… “What’s there to be confused about?”
Till purses his lips, daggers in his fierce eyes. The second punch he lands on Ivan is as weak as before, but this display of frustration only brings a smile to Ivan’s face. In that same moment, he sees the shift, an expression he doesn’t recall Till wearing, ever.
“You should’ve left.”
“I am in no hurry.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Till snaps, heaving. He looks frantic, and if Ivan didn’t know any better — pained. “You should’ve escaped.”
One word is enough to change everything. How could Ivan ever forget the moment he freed Till, when he held his hand, when Till was his for that brief moment? How could he erase the image of Till’s back in the sea of red, when all he ever wanted since this boy became his universe was to give him freedom he knew where to find? It’s an old yet fresh memory, a scab Ivan picks at before he leaves it open anew, buried deep within. So foolish.
The silence prolongs while Ivan has nothing to offer. What is even there to say? Till is delirious with fever. Otherwise, he wouldn’t remember such an insignificant thing.
“Ivan,” Till suddenly rasps, sharp and vicious. Ivan wishes he said his name again. “Why would you willingly come back?”
Ivan offers a wry, emotionless smile. “You ask that even though you returned yourself. Isn’t it hypocritical?”
“Shut the fuck up, it’s different,” Till snaps, but his voice is higher with a quiver to it. Ivan doesn’t understand that its sound, accompanied by furrowed eyebrows and a wobbly lip, is the look of vulnerability. “I… I couldn’t go.”
Ivan omits the fact that he also couldn’t. Each of the heartbeats and drawn-out breaths rests solely in Till’s hands. Wherever Till goes, Ivan will follow, even if he has to willingly step into the cage and close the door behind it, placing the keys in Till’s hand. To him, it’s no difference. His feelings, his wishes are already selfish and ugly.
Instead, he says, “Naturally. Mizi would stay behind.”
It’s difficult to tell if Till flushes at the mention of his love when his skin is colored already. However, instead of a burst of frustration or embarrassment, there’s a picture of… shame. How curious.
“You think that… it’s so simple?”
“Yes,” Delivered matter-of-factly. Ivan isn’t meant to be chosen.
Without any warning, Till suddenly tears up. Ivan can’t pinpoint what led to this reaction, only knowing that he’s the sole cause of it. Good. Let it be mine. Till is so beautiful, even when he cries. Ivan could lick his tears away.
“You’re insufferable,” Till sobs, the back of his hand against his eyes. “I hate you.”
“I know.”
Ivan isn’t the brightness Till glows in. His love is too twisted. If it means that he won’t be nothingness but Till’s hatred, Till’s shadow, then so be it. This way, Ivan can be a part of Till, no matter how vile its form. That’s what he’s suited for.
“I hate you, but… I like you,” Till suddenly mutters, the beautiful ocean of his eyes bleary and wet. “Why?”
Time seems to stop. Ivan pauses, unmoving like a marble statue frozen in time. Void of the ability to process the words thrown at him, the prickle under his skin intense and demanding, while Till looks at him this entrancing way—
The mask slips back in its place. How utterly foolish, to be swept by the current born out of deceit. “You’re feverish. You don’t like me,” Ivan corrects. Till, who’s so bright, would have never said it. It’s a distortion caused by illness.
Till reaches for something, anything within his reach, and ends up with a fork he then throws at Ivan, who doesn’t even flinch. Even if it barely missed his face.
“This is what pisses me off! Stop assuming shit!”
“You should rest,” Ivan offers impassively, standing up, locked with Till in a stare. He looks furious, so full of life even while sick.
Till grits his teeth. If not for his weakened state, he’d have likely lunged at Ivan. “I don’t know why I have to feel guilty for leaving a jerk like you.”
Another nonsense, Ivan thinks— no, apparently says aloud, given the glare Till sends his way as more tears stain his flushed cheeks. Pretty.
“Fuck you. You don’t understand anything,” Till sobs into his palms. Fingers clutch into his scalp as he starts muttering incoherently. “No one has ever done something that crazy for me but you.”
Ivan is quiet, each word twisting a knife already lodged in his gut. Till could be so, so cruel, yet it doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. That’s okay. These words are just meaningless, and the knife has grown rusty, stuck in the same spot. Making him feel alive.
“Sometimes I don’t know how to look at you without recalling that moment,” Till continues as if to himself, forgetting that Ivan is still there — imagined or real. “It’s like you pester me on purpose, without any regard. Like it’s a game or revenge. Like nothing happened and didn’t mean shit to you when it meant everything to me.”
Till sounds raw, honest, inviting, uttering words Ivan could never deem possible. Ivan almost lets himself be swept by this current, his body and mind greedy to accept it, all the different feelings Till could carry for him, but there’s a bead of sweat running down Till’s cheek, mixing with his tears. The boy is too sick to think. People are incoherent when feverish. Ivan read about it.
But he is still curious. Where could Till’s delirious state push him?
“Then why would I free you?”
Till opens his mouth, but it hangs open for a moment. His hand shifts, revealing teal eyes now stuck on Ivan again. At last, “How am I supposed to know? You’re weird. I never understood the shit you did.”
Of course, Ivan thinks. You don’t need to understand.
“But you… you were my first friend.”
“We weren’t friends,” Ivan corrects.
Till unexpectedly bursts out laughing, the switch so sudden he appears almost manic. His smile is unsettled. An avalanche of words ready to spill. “See? You don’t care at all.”
You’re the first and only part of living that I care about.
“Did you come here to mock me?”
Would you curse me if I did? I’d like it.
“Why are you doing this, Ivan?”
I love you. It’s a feeling too ugly to contaminate your pure heart.
“Maybe I’m just your plaything. Is that it?”
You’re my paradise.
“You found me pitiful and broke me out of this hell. Without a plan, just for fun.”
You’re the most beautiful when you’re free. I knew where to find it. You shouldn’t be caged.
“I always felt peaceful whenever we quietly spent time together. I’m so naive for thinking it mattered to you.”
It was me who felt happiest, not you. You just tolerated it. You’re so kind.
“You’d be so much better without me, huh?”
You’re the only warmth within my painful existence.
“I’m so fucking stupid.”
But you’re still so perfect.
Ivan picks up the fork from the floor. “Can you eat now?”
The glare Till sends his way falters, the high from before gone. Hurt twists his expression, disbelief in watery eyes, vulnerability in the wobble of his bottom lip. “I knew talking to you was pointless. Get the fuck out,” he orders, voice wet.
Ivan has long overstayed his welcome. Even though Till will likely forget most or all of their exchange, it’s okay. Abyssal eyes stare at the sick figure in front of them, cataloging this view. Cataloging each word Till offered him today. And once he’s better, Ivan will tail him like a shadow. Rinse and repeat.
Wordlessly, Ivan complies. Mindful of Till’s belongings on the floor, he turns to leave, yet a sudden, small force holds him back by the hem of a pristine white shirt. The grip is too weak to keep him in place, yet Ivan abides by the request once more when he faces Till. He is crying again.
“How am I supposed to leave?”
“I hate you,” Till repeats, the question ignored, as tears fall down his cheeks. Turquoise eyes are half-lidded, breath still uneven, body radiating heat. “Don’t go.”
“Should I call Mizi?”
It was a genuine wonder. After all, wouldn’t Till relax in the presence of someone he loves? Yet it unintentionally crawls under Till’s skin, addled eyes flickering with frustration. “Just, stay, you insufferable bastard.”
Ivan wordlessly takes his previous spot on the bed. Till watches him; he never lets go of the shirt, now loosely hanging between his fingers. Something then tightens Ivan’s chest, affection consuming him within. The touch of his hand is delicate once its back presses against Till’s forehead, as if some foolish part of him thought that he could be Till’s comfort and not just a cold, soothing pressure against the hot surface.
But he would be anything for Till. Ivan watches how anger disappears until there’s no trace of it, only tear-stained cheeks and eyelashes fanning over them as the boy struggles against sleep. And so a hum fills the room, one that escapes Ivan, forming a tender lullaby.
“Hush, my child, drift into slumber…”
Somewhere, in between the melody, someone mutters a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
Till falls into a gentle sleep before the song ends. Ivan never once looks away from the boy before him, taking in his flushed frame; it’s risky, so close to being swept by the same current a second time.
He stifles it within until he drowns, until this lone, dark ocean rests dormant again.
Ivan fixes the duvet Till managed to partially move during his previous struggles, the hand still intact on Till’s forehead. It moves on its own when it turns and slides lower, then thumbs at the remnants of the last tear that was shed. Till leans into the contact, chasing the coolness against his skin— and Ivan lets him, just as he allows himself to have this selfish moment. It’s a wonder how his hand is big enough to almost cup Till’s entire face once his palm opens, cradles the cheek. A fit so, so perfect, as if his hand was made for this moment, as if it was meant to be there.
But it’s not, and it never will be.
Ivan sinks into that familiar thought, tranquil, his expression tender. He leans down until their foreheads meet, nuzzling against Till who remains in his gentle hold. An uneven breath fans over Ivan, eyelashes tickle his skin. So Ivan lingers, his eyes closed for the brief moment only one of them will remember, tucked within a heart that solely beats for the other.
And then, Ivan leaves the room. He knows what he should do.
He doesn’t look back.
*
Once Till wakes up many hours later, the night has broken into a dawn. Strangely, he’s still in bed. Didn’t he leave the room? Or had the fever fucked up his entire perception…? Till shifts and suddenly winces, the collar pressing on fresh bruises.
Oh. They grabbed him again, took the—
Till almost crashes on the floor once his foot catches on a— tray? He pauses, confused. The temperature must’ve dropped a reasonable amount since the fog in his brain has finally cleared out, but he doesn’t remember anything. At least he slept well. Now he has to…
Teal eyes catch on the sheets thrown next to the tray on the rest of the scattered pages, as if they were always there. Till grabs them with a flutter in his heart, now calmer. It doesn’t make any sense; he remembers thrashing around to get them back. Or rather he thinks he remembers. After all, he was already feverish. It’s unmistakable, though — the scribbled “TILL THE END” is enough of a proof.
With a relieved sigh, Till sits on the floor and reaches for the cold food, scanning the sheets as if to find the answer to the hole in his memory on them. But it’s pointless. How could he know that someone risked returning them to him?
Till will never find out.