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"Hatred is a friend I wish to murder."
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Ivan was so irritating to be around.
Andrew had said this before, in the middle of an argument, when both were frustrated and refusing to listen, throwing insults and seeing what hit.
But he knew it was true, he really was annoying. He was whiney, always complaining, always twisting words until they lost their true meaning. A manipulative leech, a pest, taking everything and still saying it wasn't enough.
He was greedy, sickeningly so, and...
And he hated it. Hated everything, even himself. He hated how he lashed out, how he didn't lash out, the moments he argued, and the moments he didn't.
He hated Andrew for being better than him, yet also couldn't imagine another universe where Andrew wasn't.
Ivan was a tumor, one that deserves to be removed, killed, have no traces left behind.
He wanted a legacy, but he would never get it, not one to be proud of. He didn't save anyone like his Father, didn't bring people joy like Andrew, even the monsters in his head had done something good for humanity.
They destroyed him before he could cause more harm, got him in a corner and tore him apart from the inside out, ripped away his disease bit by bit until he was nothing.
Ivan was so irritating to be around, so he might as well disappear.
Falling off a large building, nothing new, nothing unique, just another copy like everything he has done, and will do.
Rain dripped down his pale face, drenched his tangled hair and made it stick sadly to his skin. His clothes were wet, the rooftop was wet, and the sidewalk would be no different, especially with his blood staining it.
No matter what he did, something would be destroyed. The sidewalk would be tainted with his filth, the apartment's reputation would be ruined for housing someone who did such horrible things, and Andrew would never fully recover from his abuse.
He deserved less than what he got, even death seemed too merciful for him, something as peaceful as feeling wind whip past his face and gravity tug him down to the ground.
Oh, God help him, he tried so hard to matter, to be important to someone, anyone who was desperate enough to lean on him.
Andrew used to care about him, considered him a friend, actually wanted him around once. He ruined that, like he ruined everything he touched, clung to their relationship until it was dried out with nothing left to give.
The concrete was rough against his palms, roughed up his flesh as he gripped the edge with a white-knuckled hold, looking down at the parking lot.
He's sorry for everyone who would have to see his corpse, clean his remains, hold his funeral. His mother would be so distraught, his father would've been disappointed.
Why did he have to be this way?
Ivan lifted his leg, moving on top of the barrier, feet dangling in the air.
There was a part of him that begged to move away, to try again, that he could be better, but what did it know? There was no good in his soul, no love that wasn't stone cold and dangerous, blazing like a furnace just waiting for someone to burn themself.
A ship that was never meant to sail, covered in holes and slowly sinking, taking everyone that trusted it enough to board down alongside it.
He tilted his head back, gazing up at the stars, hanging so far above, out of any human's reach.
For a moment, he felt like he could be the first person to touch them, even as they grew further and further away, the ground rapidly approaching.
Poor Ivan.
Alone, underappreciated, unloved, unsatisfied.
How irritating he was to be around.
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"Ivan! Your father's home!"
A voice, high-pitched and warm, called out to him, muffled by the walls.
He looked up from the paper in his hands, where he'd poured his heart out, translated his feelings into words only he would understand.
No one else thought the same way he did, saw what he saw. They called him crazy, weird, a freak.
His mother had loved his stories, when they were light hearted and easy to imagine, full of childish imagination. He was proud of them once, a long time ago, but confidence is hard to keep hold of.
"Coming!" he responded, placing the story down, carelessly rested on his bed sheets.
The floor was cold beneath his feet, sunlight peeking in through a gap left in his curtains, warming his pale skin when he ran past it.
His door swung open with a squeak of protest from the hinges, motion halted before it could slam into the wall. He ran towards the stairs, rushing down them, probably missing a step or two and almost tripping.
His father smiled at him from down the hall, that bright, loving expression Ivan knew so well, and caught him in a tight bear hug, lifting him off the ground with a grunt.
"There's my Vanya! How was your day?" the man chuckled, squeezing Ivan, almost to the point it hurt. His hair was ruffled, and he giggled, playfully swatting his father's hand away.
His mother watched from the kitchen archway, her hands on her hips, eyes soft.
"He's been good, never was a chaotic child was he?" she sighed, relieved.
His father nodded, shifting to hold Ivan properly, making sure his son wouldn't fall.
*Would his father consider him his child anymore?*
"Takes after his dad."
She laughed, stepping towards them, placing a hand on Ivan's grinning face, rubbing his cheek.
"He does."
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"Ivan.. say goodbye to your father."
His mother's voice was quieter than it should've been, shakey, weak. Tears stained her cheeks, her eyes red, hair a mess.
He was silent as his hand slipped away from hers, hearing the church doors slowly close, giving him time alone.
His footsteps echoed off the light colored walls that made up the church, moving past rows of vacant benches.
When he stopped in front of his father's casket, he opened his mouth to speak, but then paused when he noticed the lid slightly out of line. They must have forgotten to lock it.
Curiosity crept its arms around him and pushed him towards it, urged him to just push it back and see what was inside, know exactly what the man who saved his life and many others had become.
He looked around, and hesitantly slid his fingers beneath the lid, lifting it up slowly.
Maybe if he hadn't looked into it, he would've still been here, with Andrew, and nothing wrong between them. He could've been happy, saw something good in helping others without a price.
But he did, and his father's mangled face looked back, and Ivan realized just what exactly the cost of helping others was.
The man who sacrificed himself in the hopes of another life making it to the next day, was now a charred corpse in an empty church, who would be forgotten, like everyone else.
That's what you get for helping people, right?
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Ivan was a hateful person, wasn't he?
His Mother had yelled that a few times when they argued, his friends said it like it was a curse. Ivan hates everyone, everything, even himself.
That couldn't be true though, he could still love back then, could still smile and laugh and talk kindly, could cheer for people doing greater than him.
He's changed a lot.
"Ivan," a child said beside him, a boy whose name he couldn't remember, "you write, right? I have this essay-"
He stopped listening after that word, staring blankly into the child's dark eyes, watching their mouth move and hearing nothing that came out.
People always asked for help, asked for him to do things for them, treated him like he was their worker and they were his boss.
He never did anything they requested, even when he said he would. They didn't deserve his kindness.
"so can you-"
"No."
That made them stop, their eyes widening. "No?" they asked, like it was the most shocking word ever.
"No," he repeated, irritation bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, "I won't do that."
"But I need-"
"You'll figure it out on your own, we all do."
He remembered getting detention for being rude, or something. The kid had tattled on him to a teacher, and of course left out the part where he wanted Ivan to do his work for him.
The teachers never questioned anything when it came to claims against Ivan. They called him a problem, a rude kid, complained to his mother on a daily basis, called him hateful.
Maybe if they looked at him now, they'd be able to point and scream about how they were right. He really was hateful, he was a problem, he was rude.
He was everything they said he was, except for the good things.
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No one would understand what happened to him, no one would know what exactly wormed its way into his body and infected his mind that day, no one but Ivan himself.
His mother gave him these.. looks, the kind he couldn't easily read, like she was a stranger, and it annoyed him, because he had always been great at reading people's emotions.
Something died in him in that church, a piece of his soul ripped away, leaving a large hole that couldn't be filled. A screw gone loose, most people would say.
He became colder, closed off, easily irritated. His mother didn't notice, she had her own grief to deal with in the end, had to figure out a way to make money so they wouldn't end up on the streets, didn't have time to check on Ivan.
Ivan stopped socializing, would go days without speaking a word to his mother, which wasn't as shocking as you may think. She worked long shifts and was almost never home, so Ivan had.. learned to take care of things himself.
He was 13, a teenager, he could figure it out without her help, without anyone's help. He was stronger than his family thought, surely, he'd get through this just fine.
...Except he wasn't.
He didn't know how to handle the grief, the major loss of a parent. He wasn't alone willingly, he didn't get that option of comfort from another person.
His writing stopped, hand shaking around the pencil, tears dripping onto the paper before he could stop them.
What could he do? Who could stop him from spiralling? He was a lost cause, a ship with hidden holes, he couldn't be fixed anymore.
He didn't even know if he wanted to be.
He slammed his fist into his desk, rising to his feet, feeling the chair become unbalanced and tip over, landing with a muffled thud on the carpet. Sobs forced their way out of his throat, making him collapse to the floor, covering his face.
He was so shameful, nothing to be proud of. He wanted his mother, he wanted his father even more, but they weren't here and never would be.
His father would be so disappointed, his mother would be distraught to see her son this way, neither knowing why.
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When Ivan met Andrew sometime after highschool, it was like a switch had been flipped.
He lit up everytime they talked, texted each other daily, it was like seeing a whole different person.
Andrew was the only person he wanted around as company, his best friend, someone who saw him and didn't see the child of a grieving mother, or the son of a fallen hero.
Andrew was there to pick him up when he fell, and Ivan would do the same in return.
It only became even clearer when they actually began to meetup in person, started hanging out, learned more about the other person.
Ivan didn't tell Andrew much about his family, but Andrew told him everything about his. His mother was quiet, his father was homophobic, and they weren't happy with Andrew or each other.
He listened when Andrew vented, always listened, always helping, always supporting, always comforting, and only a few times did he get that care back.
Of course, he wouldn't talk about his issues, not as often as Andrew did, and that was probably a big reason, but it.. made Ivan tired.
He still enjoyed Andrew's company, that wouldn't change, but what fire they had egnited was slowly dying out, and neither of them knew.
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Knocking came from the door, not banging, not too loud, just startling.
His gaze broke away from the axe displayed on his wall, a gift from his father that he held close to his heart, almost too close.
Artificial lighting beated down on his dry eyes, a horrible replacement for the sun's glow, as he walked down the hallway. It felt longer, more turns, more shadows. It would be so easy to hide in the darkness around him, there could be a monster right on his heels and he'd never know.
If he glanced back just to make sure, that was his business, his hand reaching for the door knob.
It unlocked with a click, hinges squealing as they swung open, Andrew standing on the other side, smiling, shining so bright it almost hurt.
"Ivan!" he greeted, moving forward to hug the writer, just to stop himself before he could actually make any contact. Ivan hates touch, hated hugs, hated anyone getting too close to him, Andrew wasn't an exception.
He used to be, but Ivan got tired of that too.
"Andrew," he responded, making a weak attempt to return the smile, taking a step back for more distance. He felt like he was hiding, despite being out in the open, hiding his thoughts from Andrew probably.
The developer cleared his throat, following Ivan into the windowless apartment, something he teased Ivan about daily. "I brought food, and games, we can watch a few movies too if you'd like."
He closed the door behind him, making sure it was locked. "Movies sound fine," he mumbled, turning to face Andrew.
Andrew walked towards the couch, after removing his shoes of course, and set the stuff on Ivan's coffee table. He picked his usual spot on the far right vorner, leaving Ivan plenty of room on the left side, just as he liked.
He chose to ignore the little things, those moments Andrew showed he cared without saying it, like actions were enough. He'd bring Ivan his favorite food whenever the writer couldn't remember what he had for breakfast, recommend ways to help with his headaches and nightmares, sometimes offered to sleep over when he felt like Ivan wasn't doing well.
It was annoying in the best way, having someone there to notice everything, all of his habits and ideas.
He took the open space, bringing his knees up to his chest, pressing his back against the arm of the couch.
He let Andrew pick a movie, some horror he didn't really care about, and allowed himself to zone out again, the world blurring as he got lost in his head.
Andrew talked, Ivan didn't respond. He made jokes at time, commented on scenes, Ivan didn't acknowledge a word.
Eventually, he stopped trying, giving the writer a concerned glance that was not returned, because Andrew was not supposed to be concerned.
In Ivan's mind Andrew didn't care about him, didn't see him as equal.
He had always been underappreciated.
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Ivan was a writer.
He had always been a writer, found peace in words on a page, read books way beyond his level just to feel something.
His mother would boast about it anytime someone asked, how her son was so advanced.
There were many things about Ivan that weren't normal like the other kids around him.
Even as an adult, he felt like he was a thousand steps behind everyone he talked to, just barely above water level.
His room was dark, dimly lit by his monitor's glowing screen, keys clicking as he typed, thoughts slowly untangling from each other, just so he could have the time to write them out of his head.
His eyes were dry, he didn't know how long he has been here, writing this script.
It was for Andrew. His best friend's coding was amazing, Ivan couldn't deny that, but his story telling? Not so much.
He could help though, he had the skill, he's been working on it for a really long time.
He was so close to being done, maybe this could be the legacy he ached for? Through Andrew?
Something swirled in his stomach, something he couldn't name. A feeling, what kind of feeling?..
It probably wasn't that important.