Work Text:
One Last Look at the Intersection
In this pose, the subject should ideally be standing in front of a wall. One of their hands should rest on the wall. The other remains by their side. The subject then almost entirely turns to face the wall, pausing at the last second. The look in their eyes resembles the look one might have when turning around to wave goodbye at an intersection where their paths diverge from their companion's. It is a look filled with great turmoil. Photographers, be advised: Longing is not a sufficient name for the feeling.
_____
Ever so often, Till finds himself in awe of the physical property of malleability.
It wouldn't be inaccurate to call it the basis of the universe. Nothing has existed in the same state. The sturdy iron bars are hammered into giant overarching beams and into the little rusted nails holding those beams in place alike. The infinite sand along the beaches keeps the great oceans at bay, yet it is so quickly pressed into the clumsy turrets of sandcastles by small hands. Even the mountains, immovable as they are, owe their changing silhouettes to weathered rock. The same holds true for the moon and all the rest.
Prone to his own resistances to external forces, it is hard for Till to fathom that there are those in this universe who simply allow themselves to be molded into the shape of something else. Perhaps there is a certain wisdom in being willing to abandon one's form so easily. Till would not know. Still, as an artist, he is grateful for the objects that lend themselves to his hands, allowing him to coax them to embody another outline.
Clay is not Till's preferred medium. These days, he much prefers working with lenses and the people encircled by them. But even he can appreciate resilience of another kind. With time, he has found this same property can be found in other, much firmer objects and persons.
Perhaps this is why it takes Till sixteen years to realize how malleable Ivan truly is.
Right here, dressed in a loose, flowing white coat that reaches his knees, Ivan makes this especially clear. His hands are tucked into his pockets, his torso folded in as usual. Before Ivan, Till never knew there were so many ways for a person to close up. At least his ribs aren't pressed tight in one of his turtlenecks. Instead, under his coat, he's wearing an oversized, plain black T-shirt that is likely still warm from Till having slept in it last night. The rumpled softness suits him. Whether Ivan believes it or not, Till knows it has always suited him.
Today, too, the viewfinder will fail to capture the exact width of the little strand of hair across Ivan's forehead, not slicked back as it is in one of his more professional shoots. The light, another entity known to bend around corners, will not fully carry over the glaze settling over those crimson pupils. Till tries to keep from blinking very often, determined not to miss out. Like any halfway decent photographer, he knows that the eyes are the first set of cameras one has to learn to work with.
"Put one hand here," he instructs, slowly pulling Ivan's left hand out of his pocket, placing it flat against the wall. This is Till's third year in university, which means it is his sixth or seventh photography class. By this point in time, Ivan is familiar with the motions. Excellent at them, even. Still, he waits for Till to separate each of his fingers by half an inch, keeping them loose enough to move without encountering any obstructions. "The other can be… hmm. By your side should be fine. That okay? You comfortable?"
Ivan stares wordlessly for a few seconds. His right hand remains in his pocket. Till raises an eyebrow. Ivan raises the opposite eyebrow, only a little higher. He makes a move as if to pull his hand out, but he pauses halfway, pushing his fingers against the interiors of the pocket, making it bulge out. Furrowing his eyebrows, he exhales loudly as if the task is a struggle.
Till rolls his eyes. He forgot that malleability must be initiated through hands-on contact. "Seriously? Are you actually five years old?"
"Till!" Ivan exclaims, lips twisting to the side, tooth emerging from the ensuing gap. If Till wanted to name his expression, which he really doesn't, he would say that Ivan looks scarily delighted. "Is that what you say to a friend who needs help? Maybe you are the one who is still five years old. Do we need to enroll you in manners classes again?"
There is a slight tremble in Ivan's frame. A few years ago, the awareness of it would have made Till grit his teeth until they ached. Now, this makes his heart stutter through a rather confusing beat. Huffing, he reaches forward, grasping Ivan's other wrist, starting to pull it out. He makes sure to only apply a light pressure, which also proves to be unnecessary because Ivan's whole palm slides out as is, without the execution of any further antics.
Accidentally, his thumb brushes over Ivan's wrist bone, landing over his pulse, which seems to be running a little faster than he expected.
Ivan has always had a rather steady heartbeat. As kids, whenever they had to squeeze into the closet to hide from Till's stupid father, Till would press his ear against Ivan's chest and try to match his breath with the soft thumps echoing inside. Every Halloween, Ivan's grin stays stable on his face as they walked through the haunted houses at the autumn fair. Not even the phantom emerging from the darkness, dragging its bloodied sheet behind itself, can get him to shake. Yet, somehow, the simple act of Till holding Ivan's wrist has surpassed all the great horrors in their world.
Till squints up at Ivan, only to catch him in a rare moment of turning away. His eyes, averted from Till's, are studiously fixated on the white wall in front of him. Still, try as Ivan might, his gaze cannot replicate the same intensity with which it would land on the crayon clouds Till drew all over the kindergarten classroom walls.
Loser, Till thinks fondly.
Following a hunch, he reaches up with the index and middle fingers of his other hand, pressing them to Ivan's ear. As suspected, they feel oddly warm. So much for being a cool guy. In the end, he comes undone quicker than one of Till's threadbare sheets.
"Really?" Till says, poking Ivan's cheek. Under his finger, the skin sinks slightly. He draws it back. "After you did all that to manipulate me?"
Ivan glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Well, I did not realize you were so gullible, Till," he says, tilting his head, touching his shoulder with his earlobe. The skin on the side of his neck folds. In such times, Ivan has the habit of scratching it with his fingers. Till notices he makes no move to displace his hand from how Till had arranged it against the wall. "Should we be worried about you falling for online scams? Don't go getting engaged to any English princesses who need you to send ten-thousand pounds for wedding arrangements in advance."
"You're the only princess I'll worry about, how about that?" Till asks, straightening Ivan's arm at the elbow with his free hand. One by one, he unhooks his fingers from where they are still keeping hold of Ivan's hand. At the very last second, Ivan's fingers flare outward, then settle down. They never fully reach Till's own.
Ivan sighs. "You truly say such careless things," he mutters, shaking his head. "I advise you to think at least thrice next time. Twice, if three times is too many."
"Whatever." Till places his hands on Ivan's spine, turning him toward the wall. His fingers dig into the creases in Ivan's coat. This eases the spin. "I'm turning you around now, okay?"
You have to find the grooves in everything, his art teacher used to say, placing his fingers around the worn body of the pencil. In the end, drawing or painting is no different than climbing up a tree. You just have to fit your hands in the grooves. Till finds the same applies to the people and objects he photographs. Ivan, especially. It seems that wherever Till touches him is where his grooves lie. Till still finds himself reeling whenever he realizes.
Even now, Ivan goes toward the other direction without question. Revolving doors, Till thinks, funnily. Revolving doors and spinning tops and vinyls and moons and their planets. All the things that rotate along an axis of their maxing. All axes, so used to having them all around.
For a terrifying second, Ivan has his entire back to Till, who has only experienced such a pit in his stomach at train stations and in busy school corridors, every place where the pull of the crowd dragged Ivan away from him. Standing there all by himself, his shadow on the ground bereft without its constant companion, he always felt so much smaller than he really was. Still, every time, without failure, Ivan would… He would…
"Just stay like this?" Ivan asks, acting out of turn for the first time since this began, glancing backward, as if it is second nature to him. His eyes widen when he finds Till already looking back. "Nothing more?"
"Yes," Till breathes, placing a hand against the wall, next to Ivan's. If he were a little bigger, he would surely be able to cage Ivan in. He relishes the possibility of it anyway, leaning even closer. After all, desires are often a little taller than their persons. It is human nature to still try fitting into these impossible frames. "Just stay like this and keep looking at me."
Ivan's lashes flutter. At this distance, Till realizes that he may actually be able to count them. Starting at one once again, he raises the camera hanging around his neck to his eye.
"Of course," Ivan says, gaze traveling through the glass. Like light, Till realizes.
"Of course?"
The corner of Ivan's mouth softens, drooping. His smile, in all its fragile brightness, scatters in an act of refraction. "Look at you? Of course."
_____
Water in a Vase of Flowers
In this pose, the subject should ideally be lying down on a soft surface, such as a bed or a couch. Their limbs will be loose, with one hand close to their head and the other on their stomach. Their legs are to be piled on top of one another. Somewhere behind them, a window should be opened. The subject's neck should crane backward, their head tilting in the direction of the incoming light. While this may seem to be an inherent property of flowers, a bouquet placed in the loop of the subject's arms reveals that the subject is actually embodying the water surrounding the flowers in a vase, nourishing them. The gathering droplets on the subject's forehead further contribute to this assumed liquid state. Photographers, be advised: You may discover there is more than one kind of blooming.
_____
In the viewfinder, the bead of sweat on Ivan's nose goes in and out of focus. If Till still had his pencils, he would start with deep, dark lines for the bridge of the nose, tapering off as he reached the tip. He would dot the page lightly to resemble the several little pores he can see from up here. Finally, he would graze the paper with his pencil, creating the slightest hint of a glint, staying true to the way the light makes the little water droplet gleam against Ivan's skin.
Honestly, Till never imagined a life without graphite. For as long as he can remember, he loved working directly with his hands, challenging them to replicate all the shapes he could see around himself. Especially the ones that were small and easy to step on. Flower buds, blades of grass, the reflections of the stars in puddles on the road. His mother's green eye, swollen around the edges, matching his; everyone did say he had taken after her. Ivan's smile, another star perfecting its shine in the puddles, but this time, it was the ones in the back of the playground, where he disappeared every recess, leaving the spot beside Till empty and cold. Till had loved keeping all of these safe between the pages, where the world wouldn't dare trample on them again.
But try as he might, he couldn't get the glare of the ambulance lighting right, not even weeks after the funeral. He could've relied on Ivan's clear memory, but his bare bones descriptions hardly helped in arriving at the full picture. After everything, he hadn't even been able to properly trace the chocolate stains on his mother's chin, acquired after convincing the nurses to sneak in another one of those hospital puddings, despite having laughed at it so much.
Only the pictures had come close. In the fifteen-by-twenty-centimeter frame, his mother's lips were still parted, forever in the middle of yet another giggle. The funeral parlor had set the line of her mouth too straight. Till had been worried he would never be able to recall her smile. Memory, as it turns out, can be extinguished with a single breath of grief.
The camera can take over where memory ends. Till's eye may not be able to fully trail down the open column of Ivan's throat, up until the neatly ironed exterior border of his black hanbok, at least not without averting themselves occasionally, but the camera will manage to take in every detail.
How one of Ivan's hands is curled in a loose fist next to his face, as if blocking the pathway of sunlight trickling from the window screen behind him. How the other is splayed over his stomach, pressing down on an invisible wound, clutching a clump of large anemones, whose petals spread red like blood. How his torso is oriented to the side, turning as a baby does in its sleep, but only Till knows that this is the shape Ivan's body assumes every night. How Ivan's legs are entangled sideways, his eyes half-lidded, making it hard to tell how soon he might wake up, if ever.
Hurriedly, Till unhands his camera, putting a finger underneath Ivan's lower left eyelid, dragging it farther down, until he is unmistakably awake. He repeats the same motions with the other eye.
Artistic direction be screwed. Ivan should never mime any position even close to someone lying in a coffin. The only place for those flowers to grow will be in an ugly vase by his bedside. Till will make sure of it.
"Hmm?" Ivan cracks one eye open fully, sliding one of his legs closer until his knee brushes with Till's thigh, almost making Till topple over from where he's squatting over him. "How bold, Till. I hope you don't plan on doing this to your models after you graduate. Surely they have lectured you about appropriate boundaries and distances?"
Till feels the heat flood his cheeks. He pinches underneath Ivan's eye, just to see him wince. Such a stupid face. He can make such a stupid face. It suits him, Till thinks.
"Shut it," he says, out loud, scratching the side of his nose with his other hand. "This is totally different. You… you know. This… This is…"
Ivan simply looks back, providing no resolution to Till's struggles. Usually, he has a hundred percent of the words and zero percent of hesitation in using them. How convenient of him to run out right now.
Till pinches him again as punishment. This time, Ivan lets out a throaty sigh.
Till scrunches his nose. "You might actually be unwell," he states, rubbing over the slight crescent now embedded into Ivan's skin. "Does it hurt?"
Ivan's crinkled eyes make for a look Till has never seen him achieve in his puddles. Perhaps then, it must come from somewhere deep inside. Till has always suspected such a place existed inside Ivan, whether Ivan likes it or not.
"You are too kind for your own good, Till," Ivan says, pupils focused somewhere near Till's chin. "Coming back to your previous point, I am well aware of the logistics of our arrangement, thank you. I would not dare dream of more. Is that not why you handed me the flowers?"
"Huh?" Till glances at the flowers, the ones that bloom round and tremble far up to their extremities, reminiscent of dilated red pupils. He feels as he did once, chasing after Ivan in a game of tag, only to realize Ivan's legs had grown in length, meaning he took longer steps. Just like that, Till had been destined to forever be the one catching up from behind. "What are you talking about? They suit you. The flowers, I mean."
Ivan widens both his eyes. Rapidly, his gaze moves up to Till's forehead, then to the wall behind his head, before returning to Till's chin. After a few seconds, he twists to the side, curling in on himself further. In his mind, Till pictures a flower stem, wilting.
"You know," Ivan mumbles, his leg still touching Till's. Till wonders if Ivan's fans know how soft the guy can be, sometimes. In the next second, he hopes no one else will ever realize. "I never expected you to be so cruel with your words. I just called you kind, even."
When they were younger, Ivan rarely ever got upset with him in an obvious manner. Mostly, he would nibble on Till's shoulder without saying a word. He still trailed behind Till on the playground swings and slides. Perhaps Till had gotten a little spoiled as a result. Only once, after Till had drawn one of the anemones by the sandpit in Ivan's grammar textbooks, had Ivan stared at it and then retreated into the corner with his textbook. He had stayed there, reading quietly, until Till had gotten snot all over his shirt amidst what felt like a million apologies. Ivan had allowed him to read with him, after muttering words that still echoed in Till's mind: Till doesn't need to draw me flowers when he doesn't want to. I stopped asking, didn't I?
Now, Ivan purses his lips, but still leans into Till's palm, a greedy child. Till, who has grown much more adept at handling fragile things, continues thumbing under Ivan's eyes, leaning down to blow on a stray lash resting there. He'd been able to give Ivan flowers under the guise of the shoot today, but it's not the same. He wishes for a thousand more opportunities to do better. He tongues the side of his cheek, where there is no blood. Ivan's knuckles, lying by his side, are unbruised. They have stopped hurting each other in so many ways already. He hopes to find one more way to do the same.
"I call you a bastard ten times in a day, and you don't say anything," Till muses. He brushes over the lines of Ivan's skin, all the infinite furrows and ridges, their intense familiarity feeling like a language of its own. Ivan's eyes, still wide, attempt to follow the movements, even when they must be out of his range of vision. "But you'll blow a fuse if I say some flowers suit you? Should you not be more used to this? You do this professionally, don't you?"
"I'm not sure…" Ivan clears his throat. His breath is warm on Till's palm. Till shivers. "I am not sure what you believe happens in shoots, but whatever is said is hardly anything along these lines. Weren't you the one who implied earlier that we are only playing pretend?"
"Hey, I never called this play pretend." Taking a page out of Ivan's book, Till leans down, biting the cuff of his hanbok. Ivan releases no sigh or moan. Damn. He must truly be serious. That's okay. Till will have more opportunities to draw those kinds of sounds out of him. He hopes, at least. "When I said it's different, it was like… It's you. That's all I meant. O-Of course, it's different."
Ivan's bottom lip rises further. His nose drags along Till's lifeline, one of the only reddish-pink lines left on his body, today. As a kid, Ivan liked to find the reddest parts of Till, bruised and ruined, and brush his nose over them again and again, but only after he thought Till fallen asleep, curled around him. In his own room, the nights before, Till had practiced staying awake until late, just so he could remain awake as long as possible in these moments. If he had only opened his eyes back then, he wonders where the two of them would be. Would they have been able to nuzzle each other out in the open much sooner?
Flowers, Till thinks, are funny. They lean toward the sun, despite its unreachable glory. Ivan, Till thinks, is funny, too. He leans into Till the same. On the monkey bars, back in the old playground. On the last two benches, inside the classroom. On the field, during pair exercises in PE. On the last train home, from wherever else. Is this not the illumination they have both been growing toward all their lives?
Well, it's almost the same. Till, for one, has no interest in being unreachable. Wherever Ivan may be, Till will find him and keep hold of him.
"You're this delicate," Till says, in awe, now. He cups Ivan's cheek, squishing it. "And you think the flowers don't suit you?"
Raising the camera back to his eyes with his free hand, he bends down. As the viewfinder adjusts, the few blackheads on the bridge of Ivan's nose become especially clear, matching the little black tufts in the central whorl of the anemones. Imperfections are a gift given by proximity, Till notes.
"You know," Ivan whispers, settling into position, eyelids beginning to lower again. "Up close, flowers can be quite horrendous."
Till grins, ready to press the shutter.
"A good photographer knows that it is their charm point," he says, taking the picture, immortalizing all that is unnecessary.
_____
The Inherent Awkwardness of Sitting by Another's Side
In this pose, the subject should ideally be sitting on a bed or a cot. The chosen surface should have sufficient space for the body of another. While no one else may actually take a seat next to the subject, the orientation of the subject's body should evoke the potential for a second presence. The subject will place one leg on the floor. The other, folded at the knee, should be flat against the chosen surface. The purpose is to accentuate the natural awkwardness of the human form when it is in the company of a beloved. This is why, most importantly, the subject must abandon all guise of grace. After all, there is no room for grace in love. Photographers, be advised: There is no room for grace in love.
_____
Typically, the producers love to dress Ivan in pale, chic suits. While Till has rarely ever been invited to witness the behind-the-scenes of Ivan's sponsored advertisements like the rest of the leeches Ivan pretends are his friends, he often imagines the staff first affixing the buttons on his cuff-linked sleeves, then flattening his collar entirely and keeping his hair in place with an alarming amount of gel. My fans say that white suits me best, Till had heard Ivan say in an interview a while back, which is one of the things he does agree with, but he finds himself partial to the white khakis Ivan wears around the house on Sunday afternoons, leaning over Till's shoulder to peer at the developing negatives, his hands folded behind his back like somebody's grandfather.
Somehow, Till suspects this is not the look the crowds keep raving about. Call it a hunch. The adjectives they like to use for Ivan are a lot more pointed. Icy. Calculated. Princely. Charming. The adjectives Till likes to use for Ivan lack the edge. Silly. Annoyingly smart. Clingy. Annoyingly endearing. In his mouth, there are only all vowels, with all rounded corners.
Till likes the long, loose, crumpled white shirt, which makes Ivan resemble a child playing ghost. He likes the long, loose, crumpled white pants, threatening to fall off with every step. He likes that Ivan leaves his immovable, pristine smile at the door before he wears both of those, rubbing at the corners of his eyes as he walks into the living room. There is nothing proper about an Ivan who drops his face in the crook of Till's neck and whines loudly.
Today, he only wishes for Ivan to embody the same spirit, if only for the sake of the camera. Ivan, unaware, is already getting into position, settling on the bed. One foot on the floor, one folded on the mattress. Out of habit, Ivan's hand comes to rest on his folded knee. If Till were to draw the Ivan of this moment, his form would emerge in multiple slant lines. Even his shoulders, usually set straight, are hunched over themselves. If his peers or teachers patted him now, they would be surprised to find how much his spine can curve.
"So, what do you need me to do?" Ivan asks, placing his chin on his arm. For the life of him, Till cannot understand how this position might be comfortable. Yet Ivan prefers to sit like this even when he reads or cuts his nails. It is only a little bit stranger than the way he holds his fork, fingers pressed right over its neck. He should be thankful that Till is the only one who looks closely. As a good friend, he knows how to keep secrets. "Should I pose as I did for that soap advertisement? Lean back on my elbows against the pillows? Perhaps your classmates would enjoy such a visual? I understand that with your workload, dating opportunities are scarce, and I happen to know my looks are at least a little beyond passable to particularly desperate souls."
Till bites his bottom lip to keep from scowling. He would be damned before he allows any of his own classmates get such ideas about Ivan. Ivan's classmates are already a pain in the ass as is. Still, it is better if their fantasies stay limited to Ivan's polished exterior, devoid of any of the chips or cracks, such as the ones around his mouth, where his real joy lies. If anyone ever found out the way Ivan likes to lick the bottom of the mug with the broken handle after drinking his chocolate milk, Till might just have to kill himself.
But now is not the time for such ruminations. There is a graze on Ivan's jaw from shaving this morning. It shifts when he lets out a small yawn. Looking through the camera, Till spots a few hairs he has missed along his chin. There is no room for propriety or the divine. This crookedness of mundanity is what Till was always meant to capture.
"No need," he says, adjusting the focus.
In the small frame, Ivan's pupils are enlarged, like those of a cat crossing the roads caught in the headlights. It is the sort of bug-eyed gaze Ivan dons when staring at the branch of a tree in the corner of one of Till's photographs, as if the secrets of the universe are compressed in it. His mouth opens halfway.
Yes, Till thinks. Just like this.
"Un?" Ivan makes a sound, raising his right eyebrow.
"I said no need," Till repeats, walking closer, shifting the camera upward. With his mind's eye, he traces the dark arch of Ivan's brows, their uneven crests over his eyes. A badly drawn graph, he muses. "Just stay as you are, please."
Ivan's nostrils flare. "Just this way? Okay, I suppose…"
Counting to three, Till puts his finger on the shutter, watching the flash of light swallow the last few syllables from Ivan's mouth. The brightness exposes the translucent pimple patches on Ivan's cheeks, making them gleam like little moons.
As the shadows return, he can make out Ivan's mouth, now slightly downturned. It is the same shape his mouth had assumed the one semester Sua placed first in the tests, and Ivan was second by just a one-point difference.
"What?" Till says, pulling the camera down, allowing it to hang over his chest. "Don't you enjoy sitting like this? You're always doing it around the house. Figured it might be a good pose to capture. Photos turn out the best when the person in them is at their most comfortable, don't you think?"
Ivan blinks. "Do I?" His mouth trembles, lifting at the edges. He pulls his leg closer to himself. "I… am surprised you noticed, then."
Till snorts, taking a few more steps, closing the remaining distance. Unlike Ivan, who can somehow wait years without planning on addressing the elephant in the room, Till's mind recalls its presence every time, now that it knows it exists. He is not a patient person when it comes to such matters.
Ivan is right over there. They don't need all those inches between them.
"I noticed," Till says, flicking Ivan's forehead. "Hard not to, especially when I'm pretty sure all my back issues have your name on them. When you sit like this, you end up putting all your weight on me, do you realize? Ever since we were kids, even."
It's a tricky thing to acknowledge. The elephant in the room abides by certain rules, Till has realized. It cannot be spoken of in its entirety. Its large ears can be addressed. (Ivan digging his chin into Till's shoulder). So can its trunk. (Ivan breathing into Till's ear). But its tail, oh, its tail must never be recalled so brashly. (Ivan nosing down the back of Till's neck when he's tired, sighing softly). Such sensitive evidence is inadmissible for any purpose and should remain that way.
"I must say," Ivan interjects, beginning to pull his other leg up on the bed, but Till is quick to press a palm against it, holding it down. It's okay, he thinks. Don't go hiding. There's no need to be scared. This won't hurt. Malleable as ever, Ivan lets him. "You have truly mastered the art of exaggeration."
Till shrugs. "If you say so," he says, taking a seat between Ivan's spread legs.
The moment Till fills the space, Ivan falls over him, as if he had simply been waiting for Till to take the final step all this time. His weight sinks into Till's skin. Just like that, the universe shifts, falling back in place.
A stray camera may catch the jut of Ivan's chin against Till's shoulder or the puff of his breath against Till's ear, but no camera will ever be privy to the trajectory of Ivan's nose along Till's spine. Not even Till's own eyes get to bear witness.
That's okay, Till decides. This much, he can remember.