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I used to want you dead, but now I only want you gone.
The living-room was awfully cold, Andrew thought bitterly.
Only a few days after Christmas, yet not a single sign of festivity or whimsy lingered. Any vitality this space contained had long died, withered like an ignored plant. He had spent months in this hell, yet the apartment had never smelled so incredibly plain. It should’ve have something, anything, redeeming to it, a mess even. It was a clean, dull, smell that was equally uninviting and lifeless. It vaguely reminded him of a certain someone. He pushed that thought out of his mind. He pushed him out of his mind.
He’d made up his mind long before he told Ivan. It took him weeks to garner enough confidence, and money, to decide he was moving out. This life was killing him. He was going to die. Maybe he was already dead. He wasn’t quite sure if he intended it to be a “gift” to Ivan. Perhaps it was just coincidental timing. Perhaps he said that only as a lousy attempt to spare the other man’s feelings. He said it anyways.
He gathered all that he had, neatly and robotically packing items into boxes. He had very little belongings to take with him, and even then, decided to leave some behind. Some things just weren’t remembering. What he did bring though, was his computer, a few pictures, his clothes, and all the money he had. Ivan could take care of his little amounts of trash. A few boxes were lined next to door, he could envision the same sight upon moving in.
“That’s what you get for helping people, I suppose.”
He couldn’t help but hate Ivan. Ivan, who was there when no one else would be. Ivan, who sat on the rooftop with him. Ivan, who offered him so much. Ivan who let him live peacefully. His Ivan, who saw value in him when he couldn’t even himself. He missed that Ivan. Though, did that person ever really exist?
“All that I’ve done for you, does it mean nothing?”
It’s futile to hope for him. After all, Ivan made him sleep on the floor. Ivan hardly even let him sleep. Ivan always pressured him into working at any given moment. Ivan always invaded his privacy. Ivan always edited his game. Ivan who wanted to leave a legacy. Ivan who published his game. Ivan who would yell and scream and argue and make you feel bad about yourself and apologize and forgive and beg and take and take and take and take and take and take and take and take and take and take and take. He always made Andrew feel like those silver-gilded fingers were wrapped around his throat.
. . .
At some point he found a familiar comfort in the pressure.
Andrew wept for anything and everything he had lost and loved.