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As Till goes around with the kids from Anakt, feeding them, ruffling their hair, playing games with them, Ivan is always there in the background, his huge black eyes watching Till's every move. He never says a word. That one jagged tooth remains hooked over the corner of his pink lips, locking them shut. Till can feel those eyes on him, tracing his every swallow, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. When Till locks eyes with him, he always thinks that this is it: this is when Ivan will open his mouth and speak, in front of everyone. Till won't be crazy. Ivan will be real.
But the fact is that Ivan never opens his mouth, just stares at Till unblinkingly. He doesn't make noise, not until the sky is darkening outside, just how Ivan had described it happening all those years ago to Mizi while Till had been half-asleep and half-in-pain from a beating. When the sky begins to blush from the yellow sun sinking beneath the horizon, Ivan stops just watching and begins to brush against Till's side, sit on the kids's bedsides as Till tucks them in, place his elbow on Till's shoulder like an armrest when Isaac and Dewey talk at him. By the time Till reaches his own bed, Ivan is fully opaque and whispering things Till can't quite make out. When Till is staring up at his ceiling, wide-awake, that's when Ivan begins to talk.
"Till," he says, in his airy, breathy voice. What he says after that varies. Tell me about your day. Till might glare at him and say: Didn't you watch me go through it? Yes, but I want to hear it from you. Sometimes, instead, it's something like—Does it hurt? My ear? No, your throat. Fuck you. ... Of course it hurts, Till whispers hoarsely. Then, imagined: a hand on his heart. Till closes his eyes. Do you miss me? What do you think? I haven't seen you draw me in a while. Till might open his eyes, because he hasn't caught that yet. And at the curious tilt of Ivan's head, he might think, with a twinge in his heart: Hm. It's getting harder to remember your face. Draw Sua more, Ivan says. You see me all the time anyway. A long time ago, Till would have said: Yeah, I see you too much. Now when Ivan says it, he replies: Not enough.
Ivan will smile at Till with his jagged tooth. This happens every time, and so does this, more or less: Have you found Mizi yet? No, I haven't. You know that I haven't. I know ... I think she misses you. I miss her too. You have to find her soon. I'm trying. I want to find her more than anything. Ivan will bump his shoulder, or something like that, and pass through him briefly, just a little. Till will feel nothing, because this is not a ghost. You're not alone, Ivan will say gently. I'm here. Till will snort. My stalker, he'll say with a little smile. Ivan will sigh, and when Ivan sighs, their conversation will end for a long while, until Till turns to his side, where Ivan is waiting with his wide, dark eyes, unblinking. I'm tired, Till says, every time. And every time, Ivan says, I know. Let's go to sleep.
Don't go away tomorrow? Till asks. I'll never leave, Ivan says. Good, Till murmurs, eyes closing.
And when he wakes up, Ivan will be there still, watching him sleep, like he had at Anakt.
It had freaked Till out at first, he has to admit that. When they were kids, and Ivan's face would be peering down at him with his big eyes, he had squealed and crawled away. Mizi said he was from the outside; Sua said, I don't think even the outside could make someone so weird. Ivan had ambled over silently, and when he put his chin on Till's shoulder, Till jerked up and yelped. What are you talking about? Ivan had asked in his quiet voice.
You're a weirdo, Till had snapped at him. Sua had nodded sagely.
Now Ivan touches his lips, which are rough, chapped and peeling. He should find some Vaseline somewhere. He remembers Ivan's soft lips on his, his grip around Till's neck. He hadn't wanted it then. He doesn't know what he wants now. He misses Ivan acutely: when he thinks about him, there is an ache in his chest. Talking to him, wanting Ivan's head on his shoulder, wanting Ivan's hand pressing over his heart: he wants it. He wants that. But—it aches, to want it, not only because he can't have it but also because—it just ... He presses his fingers harder against his bottom lip, into his teeth. The thing is that he might have wanted it. Someday. Kissing means affection: he knows that now. It was some kind of affection that had led Ivan to his death, made him sacrifice himself so that Till would have a chance.
He realizes that his fingernails are pressing too harshly into his lip. He pulls his hand away, but feels wet blood slide down his chin.
Ivan appears in front of him. Till opens his mouth. He wants Ivan to say something, talk about some ridiculous, hulking animal with a wide, orange bill, pink horns, and shining wings that he'd read about in a book. He wants him to say I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry there was no other way to save you without killing me. I'm sorry that I love you.
"Don't go away," he croaks out instead. "Please." His lip trembles. He wipes away the blood. Ivan steps forward, slowly, one step at a time. He reaches out carefully for Till's cheek, where there must be a smudge of blood. He traces a line down to his bleeding lip. Till closes his eyes; opens them. Ivan's lips curve into a sweet smile.