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Pain blossoms throughout his neck, beginning on one side and radiating throughout his skull. His eyes burst open as a gasp rips from his throat. His hand finds its way onto the open wound, grimacing at the clear indention of a hole in his soft flesh.
He looks down at himself, still in the tacky get up Urak and his multiple designers put on him. There’s pieces of hair on his forehead, stiff from the amount of gel that was used to give him a slickback. His hair had always been unruly, so achieving such a look was truly a miracle.
Till doesn’t know where he is. It’s bright all around him, like he’s waiting out in the hallways for one of his friends to finish their training. Ivan, usually. He sits up, wincing at the tenderness in his neck, and looks around.
“What are you doing here?” Ivan asks with a small, knowing smile, dark blood dried on his lips. Till stares openly, practically gawking. That’s right. He’d lost against Luka, was shot in the neck, and promptly died. How pathetic. “I didn’t want to meet you here.”
I never thought I’d see you again, he thinks. They dragged him away from Ivan’s body after he tried—and failed—to hold pressure on Ivan's wounds to stop him from bleeding out. Ivan had turned cold and stiff under his hands. Apparently him trying to lay down beside Ivan was the final straw, and so they ignored his cries and kicks and dragged him away by his collar.
“Where are we?” Till asks, eyes widening at the sound of his voice. He’s much raspier than usual, much more strained for someone who is speaking normally. That makes sense, though. He still has his wounds, so of course he’d have the damage that comes with them.
“Somewhere in between,” Ivan unhelpfully supplies. He points to the left, revealing a large window that seems to be showing the events occurring on stage. “There’s the living,” and then he points to the right, where a closed door stands tall. “And there’s the after.”
Till stands and dusts off his pants, but all that serves to do is stain them with the blood that was coating his hands. “Well, let’s get going then.” He juts his chin toward the door, and sticks out his right hand, fully expecting Ivan to grab onto it. “We can go together this time.”
Ivan shakes his head softly, but still accepts Till’s outstretched hand. “That door is closed for a reason.”
Till shivers at the coolness of Ivan’s hand. His body hasn’t had enough time to go cold and stiff, then. He probably has to wait for that to happen before he can cross over, or whatever. It’s not like he has a choice in the matter. Pulling Ivan along with him, they stand side by side in front of the window. Funnily enough, he can see himself clearly. Mizi is holding him tightly, her tears falling onto his face and mixing with the blood splattered on his mouth.
Maybe if he was still alive, his heart would be racing at the sight. That’s not the case here.
“You should go back,” Ivan says, shattering their silence. Till glances at him from the corner of his eye. His face is pulled down into a tight frown, eyebrows furrowed at the sight on stage.
Ivan has always had a knack for provoking the childish emotions out of Till. One he hasn’t felt in a while, pettiness, creeps up into his chest and stakes claim in his throat. He scowls and lets go of Ivan’s hand so he can punch him in the arm. “Why wasn’t that an option for you, huh? Did you not wanna come back?”
His face flushes in anger as Ivan nods wordlessly. How dare he, really? Insist that Till go on living, when he himself never thought to try to do the same? Till punches him again, harder this time, but regrets it immediately as Ivan’s wounds begin to leak blood from the force.
“I’m sorry—” he starts, heart suddenly drumming in his head. Ivan’s cold, but the blood that pours out of his old wounds is unnaturally warm. “Please,” he doesn’t know what he’s pleading for. His whole body trembles, but he’s otherwise frozen in place. “Please.”
“Till,” Ivan cups Till’s face familiarly. He swipes the tears that Till didn’t realize were falling down his cheeks away, gently caressing the streaks left behind with his thumbs. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Why,” Till chokes out, face crumpling at the admission. His neck hurts and his pulse is thready in his veins and he’s warm. Ivan is cold and his wounds have long since been unfeeling. “Why am I here?”
It’s cruel. Too cruel. He remembers Mizi explaining the concept of God and religion, once upon a time. He never believed that such a cruel figure could exist. How can something with so much divinity and power stand aside while its creations suffer from inhumane treatment?
This must be karma for not believing. He’s trapped in this in between state, despite his heart still beating in his chest. Whoever put him here must be cackling. What a horrible joke to play on someone.
Ivan engulfs him in a hug, cradling his head against his chest. Till strains his ear trying to listen for a heartbeat, but it's completely silent. No breathing, no beating. Stillness. Ivan noses the top of his head, seemingly unbothered by the gel and sweat and just happy to be there.
“It’s my fault,” he says quietly. Till shakes his head, ignoring the way his neck burns from the movement. Ivan chuckles and his arms tighten, as if afraid Till will push him away at any given moment. “I wanted to see you again. I didn’t think I ever would.”
Till finally reciprocates the hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Ivan’s waist. He closes his eyes, prompting more tears to fall, and breathes him in. Ivan runs a hand soothingly up and down his back, making his knees feel weak. “I don’t want to go back.”
Ivan’s hand freezes momentarily, but then continues on, like it encountered a bump in the road. “Don’t say that.”
“I wanted you to win,” Till pulls his head away from Ivan’s chest to stare into his eyes. “Why did you have to go and die?”
He doesn’t miss the way Ivan’s eyes dart down to his lips. He licks them unconsciously, recalling the way Ivan’s mouth had felt on his. It stunned him—scared him, most of all. Till couldn’t wrap his head around it. He wanted Ivan to stop, to go back and pick up his microphone and continue singing. He regrets pushing him away, but would do it all over again if he thought it would make Ivan give up on saving him.
“I thought you’d figured it out already,” Ivan teases, lips curling up into a smug smile. His snaggletooth pokes out, and Till could never have guessed that one day he would miss someone else’s tooth so much. “I think it’s quite obvious.”
“Nothing you do is obvious, you jerk.” Till snakes his hand onto Ivan’s face, pressing the pad of his thumb under the sharp edge of his tooth. It stings, an ugly reminder that he’s still alive. That he doesn’t belong in the in between, not really. “Why didn’t you say anything before, then?”
Ivan leans forward and presses his lips against Till’s, less desperate and more gentle than last time. Till’s mouth falls open, allowing Ivan access to his tongue and teeth. Ivan licks alongside the line of his lips, nipping and sucking as he explores. He’s slow in his movements, like they have all the time in the world. Till wraps his arms around Ivan’s neck, wanting to merge into him. He pushes his mouth into Ivan’s with more force than necessary, causing their teeth to clank against eachother. He wants to consume a part of him and bring him back to the living, he wants and wants and wants.
Till still needs to breathe, so he pulls away with a flush high on his cheeks. Ivan’s face is pale and bloodless, but his pupils are blown so wide that any normal person would think his eyes are crimson and not black. Behind them, the door that was once closed begins to creak open.
“I can’t let you come with me.” Ivan glances toward the window. On the stage, Mizi has her ear pressed to his chest. “It isn’t your time.”
The pain in his neck grows sharper, consuming his every thought. His arms go limp, his knees buckle below him and threaten to give out. If it weren’t for Ivan still holding onto him, he would’ve fallen into a heap on the floor. It hurts. It hurts so much. His eyelids grow heavy, and he has to fight against them to stay conscious at all.
“Haunt me,” Till spits, clutching weakly at Ivan’s collar. “Don’t leave me alone.”
The door is wide open now, but Ivan doesn’t bother heading toward it. He holds onto Till’s weak body like it’s a precious relic meant to be handled with utmost respect. If he says something, Till can’t hear it. His vision is fading, and his hearing has been drowned out by a sharp ringing in his ears.
He can still feel, though. He promises to appreciate Ivan’s gentle touches when he wakes up, but he’s so tired. He wants to kiss him again, to pour out every word he left unsaid between them into Ivan through his mouth. Maybe in another life, where there are no segyeins and they aren’t forced to sing to the death, they’d have more time to talk.
In that world, he’d devote himself to understanding Ivan.
—
Till wakes up to the sound of muffled concern, unfamiliar voices chatting above him like he isn’t there. His hands grip the blanket covering his waist in a useless attempt to ground himself.
“Where are you looking?”
His eyes dart around to find the face that that familiar voice belongs to. His breath gets caught in his throat. It’s Ivan, once again. He’s wearing his Round 6 outfit, but there is no blood present to stain him. He’s sweating, and Till belatedly realizes that he’s sweating, too.
Sensing that he’s unable to speak, Ivan says a quiet “Hello,” with an impassive look on his face. Till’s eyes remain stuck on him. Ivan crouches down and leans in toward his face, prompting Till to finally sit up instead of laying there like a fool. Even though this isn’t a face he necessarily wants to see—his mental state sure can’t handle the heartbreak—he can’t find himself paying attention to anything or anyone but Ivan.
Ivan straightens up, says something mean that Till would have punched him for if they were still kids in ANAKT, and hides behind the people attending to him. Till ignores them, the shock of Ivan’s presence having yet to fade away.
When he opens his mouth to force words out of his still wounded throat, Ivan rushes to his side and presses their lips together. If it weren’t so annoying, maybe he’d appreciate the gesture. He coughs from the rough force Ivan used, and Ivan doesn’t even seem remorseful. He glares at him with teary eyes, clutching at his throat.
“Do you want me to keep going?” Ivan asks, a cheeky grin on his face. His stupid tooth makes an appearance, and Till’s mind blanks because he might not have ever seen it again. He’s gone mad, yes, but being haunted by your dead best friend isn’t the worst case scenario.
Maybe that other world he was dreaming of could be something he creates in this lifetime.