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Till first discovered them when he brushed his teeth that morning— the anemones.
His spine shook, ribcage seized with pain and something darker as he spat out the toothpaste and tasted sourness on his tongue. A flower caught in the drainstopper, the running water washing away the frothy mint and revealing its paralyzing red hue. His stomach lurched.
Till hated the color red.
It was a visceral reminder of a man who existed only in distant, fractured memories that blurred like he was moving too fast. It was the same red of his varsity jacket he wouldn't ever get rid of long after highschool graduation, Till wouldn't admit it out loud but he still kept it for when nothing else felt right on his skin. The same cursed hue in his desperate gaze, always watching, always pleading, wanting what he could never have like a mistress with no shame.
Ivan…
His memory was stained in red.
Till retched when he thought about the blood.
When he scrubbed it off the floors like some fucked up parallel to erasing a canvas—
his heart caught in his throat when he thought about the way the blood wouldn't lift off the ground, only smear and spread into the carpet like Ivan’s existence was never meant to be erased, only dispersed, rooting deep and twisting tight around Till’s soul in what he could only describe as regret.
Ivan, I’m so sorry.
I’m so fucking sorry.
The water was still running, the sink starting to flood over the edge. Till’s mind was elsewhere, grief and terror rewriting his reality, he was only snapped out of it when water dripped on his bare feet.
He quickly shut the faucet off and desperately grabbed for the flower, water sloshing around and spilling over the edge but Till could not reach it. Once his vision cleared, he couldn't see the flower either. Gone. Like it was never even there.
But it was— Till swore it was.
He needed a cigarette.
He kicked the front door shut on his way out to the porch, fishing in his pocket for a cigar and a lighter. The acrid tobacco scent carried in the wind past the lavender fields, those pastures that now represented lost dreams and shattered hope and seemed to stretch endlessly solely just to taunt Till.
An old abandoned swingset softly creaked ahead, swaying back and forth in the dusk air as if someone was on them, and Till shook his head to rid himself of the memory.
It was dark, the lavender fields christened by the moonlight casting a frigid glow on the dewy grass. Till sat on the wooden bench, swaying softly and feeling the frosty air catch on his ears and nip at his nose like burning frost. He closed his eyes, like maybe he could immortalize this moment if he pretended he didn't see it. He would never have to watch Ivan leave when the sun rises if he never looked at him at all.
Fuck, Till will regret that until the day he dies.
A hand grabbed the chain abruptly, Till’s feet kicked dirt up into the air and his heart lurched into his throat simultaneously, he opened his eyes suddenly—
Ivan was invading his space, caging him in with hands grabbing the chains and stilling him. The moon wasn't white, never to Till. It was crimson and existed in the irises of the boy who towered over him, sharp canine glinting with every heavy breath from his parted lips. He moved like liquid, like whiskey. Smooth in the way his hands cupped Till's face, brutal in the way his tongue slid down his throat and singed himself into every fiber of his body.
It was dizzying, intoxicating—
unfamiliar and too much and not enough.
He wanted to kiss Ivan back. Desperately so.
Fear and instinct outweighed his desperation and need for Ivan. Keeping Ivan at arm's length was far easier than getting familiar with his warmth and shape, only to be left cold and empty afterwards.
He did the only thing he could.
Till pushed Ivan away, eyes wide open.
They weren't open long enough to catch the pain in the taller man’s expression— Till shut his eyes immediately after. His cheeks flushed, warmth coursing violently through his veins in such a stark contrast to the freezing air that Till thought he could go into shock right then and there. His heart beat rapidly, in perfect synchronization with Ivan’s fleeting footsteps, but too loud to hear him leave.
When his eyes opened, all he could see was a shadow in the fog ghosting the twilight garden, eyes glowing like sirens. Ivan’s retreating figure grew smaller as he ran, and Till somehow knew— his panting, heavy with desperation and exertion, would be the last time he ever heard Ivan’s breath.
His skin crawled like his soul was trying to escape, to chase after the one thing that noticed him. But his body wouldn't move, couldn't move.
It's been a year since.
Till would have given anything to see Ivan’s tears fall down his face for the last time— to know that Ivan cried for him.
But all that's left is the anemones framing a funeral photo of him, his smile forever frozen by the curse of time.
As the days went by, the flowers began to appear more often.
In his food, in his pockets, and sometimes when he was alone, he spat them out into his coffee.
Only when the silence became too much and he mourned Ivan, the flowers escaped his body in violent heaves until his throat was raw and he could taste something far more horrifying than blood.
A love unspoken that will forever haunt him.
It began to fester and grow thorns.
The thorns in his throat were a symbol, a punishment for the words he never spoke that day, suppressed feelings that died on his tongue before he could ever put them into existence, into a shape that Ivan could hold and recognize. One that he could cherish as his own before his untimely death.
Now, they exist in the space of memory and the passage of time, a missed opportunity, a bird that never got to sprout its wings, living in a cage far too small for its own good. Ivan only lives behind closed eyelids, burning himself into dreams of the twilight garden where they both left pieces of themselves behind.
He spent the Sunday afternoon on the swings, pushing and pulling through the air, arm outstretched as if he was reaching for something.
But he couldn't get high enough, never as high as he wanted to without Ivan there to push him. Nothing was the same without him anymore.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of bland dinner, the shock of finding an anemone in his soup, and the feeling of eyes watching his every movement. Later that night, the flowers trailed from the kitchen all the way to his bedroom like a trail of blood.
Till found another flower when he lifted his blanket, and he set it on his nightstand by the glowing amber lamp. It will disappear anyways, he whispered under his breath. Everything disappears anyways…
A moth chews on the wilting cotton curtains, the scent of lavender carries from the window.
The stars sparkle brighter than usual.
And still, he drifts into sleep like it is any other night ever since Ivan left earthside.
An angel rests at the foot of the bed.
He isn't alone tonight.
Till wakes at 3:38 AM, the haunting hour. The veil between the dead and the living is the thinnest at this time. The world is still, except for the stirring by Till’s feet, the shadow that is beginning to take form. A pair of red lights blinks down at Till, like surveillance watching his every move, terrifying and comforting all at once. Sweat drips down onto Till’s face, hot and wet, but it is not his own. He can't move, frozen by fear and the hand that is caging around his neck, thumb pressing into his fluttering pulse.
The other hand grabs his jaw, forcing his mouth open wide. Liquid drips in, smooth and burning and hot— metallic. Till tries to scream, choking on the poison trickling down his pulsing throat, accepting and rejecting all at once. He closes his eyes even though it is dark, anything to avoid looking into the ghost’s eyes. Till prays this is just a bad dream.
It won't end, the copper taste of regret spills down his chin and pools in his ears, and suddenly he is unable to hear the gasps and chokes coming from his aching lungs. His nails bore into the hands that held him down, leaving red marks in their wake.
Sleep paralysis demon, a harrowing manifestation of guilt and the pain of a truth left unsaid, realized too late.
He swallows the last few drops, the weight on his body disappears.
This is the last thing he remembers before his mind is drowned in the pitch black of night and blood-stained memories.
Ivan… Please, come back.
Don't haunt me this way.
Morning comes in a soft pink glow, dust floating in the air like apparitions, catching the light in fragments. Scars striped Till’s neck, raw and burning with the cotton pillow against his skin, a reminder of last night's transgressions. He gets up and slowly pads to the bathroom, shoulders weighing down with a ghostly presence looming above.
The mirror is fogged despite the cold morning air, he wipes it with his sleeve, for a moment, he only sees himself. Pale and sickly eyes bruised and haunted from lack of sleep. His teal hair frames his face in damp tendrils, unkempt and growing far too long.
He tucks a strand behind his ear and his gaze flickered away for a split second before looking back up.
A second face appeared behind him.
Eyes as red as ruin, watching with bated breath.
Till doesn't turn. He knows Ivan isn't truly here, he can only see his presence but not feel it. Ivan never felt cold standing behind him, his usual warmth was absent. He held Ivan’s gaze in the mirror, unwilling to speak first.
Ivan grinned.
“Missing me now?” He murmured, his tone had a taunting cadence to it, like he spent years studying Till to be able to read him without words.
Till didn't look away.
“Moths kept chewing holes through my clothes. The swings creak too loud, it's like you never left.” Till muttered, tinged with resentment, but not entirely hatred.
He winced at the sharpness in his tone, “You abandoned me and it torments me every dreamed and waking moment, Ivan!”
“How does it feel to know that every inconvenience, every annoyance, is all I have to remember you by?!” His voice shook, knuckles gripping the sink until they paled.
Ivan didn't flinch, his grin didn't falter. He stepped forward, eyes flickering like a candle against a cold draft.
The space between them was shrinking, but never gone, always unbridgeable, always ephemeral.
Bittersweet in the way it stirred yearning and resentment deep in the depths of Till’s chest, pumping liquid numbness and repression throughout his body as if it would make everything hurt less.
Ivan stopped, somehow the silence of his stillness was even louder than his footsteps.
Two feelings, a paradox that was twisting and dizzying, too vague to call love, too soft to call hatred.
“You never said it, not even once,” Ivan murmured.
“Said what?” Till choked out, didn't miss a beat.
Ivan’s voice softened, almost a whisper.
“Do I really have to spell it out for you, Till?”
Till’s eyes twitched.
Air locked in Till’s chest, a tightness that he knew all too well. His hands reach for his neck, trembling and unable to steady himself before the coughing tears through him, blindingly painful and violent.
He doesn't clutch his mouth in time before the anemones spill from saliva-slick lips.
The petals, soft and soaked, cling to the porcelain sink like regret.
Ivan’s gaze dropped down to the flowers, something tender folded his sharp features, fondness and disappointment. He can see the truth spill from Till’s lips, feel the desperation in every contraction of his stomach, the regret in the way his spine arches with every heave.
The weight of unspoken love lingering and choking him like smoke and ashes.
Till swallows hard, throat burning, eyes watering, but the words are stuck in his throat— the thorns tighten around his vocal chords, punishment and repentance all in one.
Ivan remained silent behind him.
His grin faded completely, lips tucked into a thin line, his sharp canine drawing blood. He leaned forward, hand hovering over Till’s shoulder in the reflection but never touching him with the iciness in the tips of his fingers.
His gaze is soft, like he had practiced this before in the silent aching hope Till would recognize his pain one day.
“Even if you can't say it…” Ivan’s voice was soft, distant, he chuckled bitterly.
“I still felt it, I think. In the way you pulled me closer before pushing me away.”
Till tried, he really did. His reflection flinched in the mirror, but his lips never moved— only bled flowers.
A single petal landed on the porcelain.
Ivan just wanted to be loved. Till knew that, he had felt it, had seen it. But fear always had a way of distorting things so far and fractured from reality.
Both men gazed at it before teal met crimson in the glass once more.
“I would've waited for you.” Ivan’s voice broke, “would've waited longer.”
Till pressed his hand over the mirror, covering Ivan’s reflection. Hollow, flat, it was just glass. Not warm and soft, not Ivan, never Ivan. Not anymore. Tears pricked at Till’s eyes again.
He closed his eyes.
A soft rustle like moth wings broke the silence as the petals began to fade, Ivan’s covered reflection blurred at the edges. Till’s hand slid lower to reveal Ivan’s expression, fingertips resting on the lips he would have given up his life for to kiss one last time.
Their eyes met one last time, and for half a choking moment, time folded in on itself. If Till could only just reach a bit further, if he could just speak, maybe this would end, maybe things would be okay.
But there was no point in continuing to try.
His voice snagged behind his teeth.
Letting Ivan go would be Till’s final and most sincere act of love.
The air was thick with acceptance and resignation.
Ivan just smiled, sad and forgiving.
As gentle as a sigh, breath as frigid and smooth as milk, he faded like dusk swallowing the light from the sky.
Till shivered.
Goodbye, Ivan.
I loved you; I was scared.
I'm sorry.
He stood there long after Ivan and the flowers were gone, hand trembling as he lowered it back down to his side.
Ivan was gone, and all that was left was the scent of anemones and the air turning lukewarm.
He padded to the bedroom window where the lavender fields and abandoned swing set seemed to wait for him. The sky was pale and stretched endlessly in shades of stormy grey and blue, the sun hidden in the clouds.
The chains stopped creaking with the phantom weight of Ivan. Lavender no longer wafted through the air and settled on Till’s tongue like the bitter aftertaste of medicine.
He doesn't say a word.
But for once, the silence didn't burn in his throat, where the anemones bloomed.