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June First, it's been two years.
There isn’t a point to anything anymore, not that there was ever one to begin with. The one flaw to life is that good things happen to bad people, and he could only enjoy that for so long. Ivan accidentally built a grotesque hope, maybe that he could transform into something worthy, that he could earn the good of life.
Till became the small source of joy Ivan had, something so complex, yet he understood him completely. He was ugly, cruel, and emotional, human and vulnerable; he was Ivan's. Despite it all, they’re no longer on speaking terms.
Ivan sat alone in his room, moments passing as if mere seconds were several hours.
At this point, this was more of a perverse fantasy to think he would come back, but Till would always give in to his emotions. He was connected to Ivan one way or another, and it was fulfilling being understood, having his every action read. Ivan knew Till better than he knew his own thoughts, his opinions, his feelings. It was only by comparison did he know he wasn’t close to the good that Till is.
The most awful part about being born wrong, is that because all mistakes are temporary, so was everything in Ivan’s life. He and Till aren’t talking anymore, not because of a fight, not because Ivan couldn’t pull him back hard enough, but because Ivan just wasn’t enough of a person for someone to want.
He felt it, long before he and Till ever got close, long before he had any hope. In the end it was his fault.
But Ivan couldn't change, he was stuck in this body, this mind. It pooled at his feet, clawed at his core and numbed his senses, all while he ran his mouth, all while he watched as Till ran ahead, while everyone around him grew while he only molded into what everyone always told him he would be.
Ivan sat, pills in hand as the sky transitioned from a gradient of blue, only found in oceans–perhaphs Till’s eyes–and into something dark as harsh, grey pastels painted over the heavens, the air humid and still.
He was alive now, but his body felt motionless. He was unable to will himself to blink or to breath on his own. And as always, his hair remains perfect, his face; fair and still.
It wouldn’t matter doing anything, if he were to move, nothing would change; Till still wouldn’t be there and Ivan would continue with his day. Waking up again and again to be nothing, to show up and force himself to be Ivan, to live on in others lives unaffected if they lived or died. Walking this earth as something already dead.
June First, Ivan hadn’t left his room since the Twenty Fifth.
Till knew Ivan needed him, that's why it was admirable that someone as sentimental as him could do this to Ivan, but Ivan didn’t care. He didn’t need Till to change, to be anything; Ivan would be glad as the dirt on his shoe, the sweat down his temple, the cuts on his wrist. Having known him was enough.
Enough to have felt human, enough to have finished living.
It was a drug to have fed off of his attention, to have fed off of living beside him, teased with the taste of his love for others. Tasting his pain and anger, gnawing at his naivety. He could feel it. Feel it fall down his throat–a bite too big, sharp and painful. It would drag cuts down his voice, scar every word and belief Ivan had. He was his.
June First, Ivan was made up of meat and bone, not flesh or blood.
Of course, that's why it was his fault for ruining their friendship in the first place, there is nothing in Ivan's heart that was truly human, nothing he felt that was ever real. It wasn’t possible, but through Till?
If he could finally get his hands on him, feel the warm blood pumping through his neck as Ivan held him down. If he could just cut open his skin. If he could feel the same flesh that Till does, bathe his dirtied body in the blood that keeps Till alive. Pump his heart for him, maybe Ivan would feel human too.
June First.
And he almost felt real, felt it with Till, being his friend.
It was exhilarating, to have his skin against his. Mindless sobs falling out his thin lips. For tears for someone else to fall as he pressed against his shoulder. For them to have brushed against his eyelashes before falling on the tips of Ivan’s fingers. To taste him.
June First, it’s June First. That's twenty days away from Till’s Birthday.
Does Till wonder about him like he does?
June First, there's no point to living.
That was love. His heart skipped a beat. There wasn’t dread in him as the pills slid down his throat, his movements stiff after hours of sitting still.
June First, it’s over.
Today, he would finally leave his room after a month. When he goes, he finally won’t feel glimpses, teases of any emotion at all. Not a shallow love, not lustful hate, not himself.
He’ll sink into the floor and become a part of the earth, he’ll finally live. People will become nothing, and finally nobody will be deceived, having a maggot living off of them.
The need he’s had for Till, will wash away with his breathing heart.
Even as Ivan walked down the stairs, he couldn’t predict when it would happen, or even if it would work, what it would feel like. It doesn’t even matter if it hurts, the most he’ll ever deserve is finally resting.
Since the sky had darkened, rain poured from the clouds. Time seemed to pass by in intervals; one moment it's a drizzle, the next his front porch is flooding.
This is it, it’s June first.
Ivan misses Till. He wasn’t afraid to think it–he knows. That's why all of this is happening, that's why the past year has been so draining, that's why every mask he’s ever held, for his own sake and others, had broken in months.
He didn’t know if it would happen immediately, at this point he was unsure if it would happen at all, but he felt drowsy. He made his way towards the door, a shadowed figure appearing through the colored window panes.
His body heavy and his eyes struggling to open—not as something that hurt or felt eminent, but just an overwhelming, tiring sensation.
It's him, it's finally him isn’t it? Perhaps he would pitied Ivan once more, yell at him for the last time. Swing at him, again and again. Reek of alcohol, bring his shitty friends to watch as Ivan just takes it. Or maybe it's fake. It's a sign to finally feel something. To feel the rain on his skin.
He would never find peace.
–
Till’s drenched figure swayed just beyond the doorframe, the cold winter air flowing; a mirroring environment to his sudden presence. Perhaps he’s come drunk again, soberness too difficult of an apology.
Is he here to beg? Ivan missed Till’s tearful, drunken flush. How he always came back to Ivan, almost subconsciously like a lost dog. It was hard to feel tired when what's going to kill you finally comes back.
Over and over again, this welled his heart, Ivan’s mind mending their connection in mere seconds, insecurities something of the past; blissful fantasies of how this will turn out rolling out in his mind. He can die tonight happy–this won’t matter in a few hours–but both a slight satisfaction and regret eases his grief.
“Till?” Ivan’s voice came out, a gasp. Not because of surprise, but utter weakness.
His eyes gleaned, a wetness catching the light's reflection before Till’s face was even uncovered from its shadow. His lanky body mechanically shifted forward to the light, moving like he was forcing himself to even breathe.
There was a soberness to his puffy red eyes, shining a conscious, contemplative look. The pinkness in his cheek and nose grew only more visible as he struggled to breathe, snot running down messily onto his mouth.
“‘Van”
Ivan’s hands reached out almost on instinct.
“Can I stay?”
–
Tears, rain, snot and choked sobs muffled his words.
“Fuck,” He muttered, voice hoarse, “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Ivan’s cold, unfriendly hands rubbed his back. Ivan hated touching other people, hated feeling their disgusting bodies, and being himself, disgusting. None of it mattered anymore though, because despite Till being soggy and cold, and Ivan’s body barely holding together, he's here.
“It’s okay Till.”
His body shivered, his shirt sticking to his skin as Ivan slowly guided him towards his room. As he opened the door, Till continued to mutter under his breath, and Ivan felt a weird satisfaction in how pathetic he was. How needy; all of this vulnerability was just for him.
“Everything with us…s’ all my fault…”
They both sat at the edge of Ivan’s bed.The silence in the air sat there for a moment as both of them moved not an inch. Life seemed to pause, even as the wetness of Till’s clothes sunk into Ivan’s white sheets, even as tears flowed down his face, they would always wait for each other.
“You could never hurt me Till.” Ivan whispered–something intimate and out of place and odd for them, but it needed to be said at some point.
Till sat there, his face buried in the middle of his chest. Ivan felt nothing but an itching feeling. Utterly carnal; a burning love. It pooled in his mouth and below his stomach.
There was something off about Till–not that Ivan was able to think enough to notice the little things he usually could–but he was extremely shaken up. There was blood all over his arms, stomach and leg–even his neck. His pupils were dilated. His hair was even cut shorter than he usually cut it–he didn’t even bother to re-dye his skunk tail.
Ivan reached his hand to his cheek, gently guiding him to sit straight up, “Till you’re drenched–take this off–”
Ivan leaned forward to Till who sat tense–almost refusing to look him in the eye–leaning to take his jacket off, but he flinched away, sudden fear in his face.
“Hey…” Ivan spoke, softly, but more irritated than he expected. It was beginning to become difficult to speak, or really stay conscious at all. “Take it off? Okay?”
His hands moved towards him slowly, and as Till looked him in the eye, he sighed, relaxing his body as he allowed Ivan to take the jacket off.
“It’s…okay.”
In a normal circumstance, he would have found his way around this. Wording things so things didn’t have to be so tense around them, but this was shocking.
Till’s arms were covered in deep gashes, the rest of his arms bloodied. Some looked fresh, as if they happened just before he got here, others infected and scabbed, but not old. They were dangerously cut–they could probably kill him considering how badly they’re bleeding and how many of them there were.
To say the least, he looked mutilated. There were cigarette burns atop scabs, others slashed in half.
“It's okay,” Ivan reassured, whether it was for himself or Till.
Ivan didn’t realize it, but he was grasping onto his arms. Not harshly, not in anyways that could hurt him, he knew not now. His brows furrowed. Not if this would be the last time he would see him.
For a moment, he couldn’t make out anything. But it felt nice. It was so warm, so grey.
“It's okay Till.”
He wanted to press down, drag his fingernails in the middle of the crevice, deepen it. He would kiss his skin if he could, cut Till for him if he asked.
“It's okay…”
Ivan caressed his arms, barely thinking anymore, neither able to look each other in the eyes.
“F-fuck…”
Ivan stopped for a moment, his fingers lighter.
“He finally kicked me out...don't got friends…or,” he breathed through sobs, “anyone.”
“Urak? What happened to your friends? You and Eun?” Ivan breathed. He wasn’t trying very hard to respond at this point, but Till’s dickward friends were always on his mind.
“‘m clean…don’t hang around them…” he mumbled, voice wet.
He needed him still. He didn’t realize it, but there were faint tears down Ivan's cheek.
He wrapped his arms around Till, who couldn’t stop shaking. It didn’t matter if he got any blood on his shirt, it would only make his end meaningful. It was Till.
Even after these last two years, Ivan felt the same love he felt punching Till until his face was all blooding, choking him until he passed out in their room. The same love he felt seeing him the next day and still being his best friend. He might not be worthy, and he reminded himself of that, but this was his. He would keep it, tonight and after this life.
Ivan wiped away Till’s tears with his longsleeve, waiting for the moment he would look back up at him. It was getting more difficult to stay awake.
He didn’t hide his sobs anymore, and he let out longer, desperate gasps.
Ivan didn’t want time to pass by this quickly, he wanted this moment to last forever. But it seemed he blinked, and Till began to calm down. His eyes fluttered open, trying to keep his focus on him.
“Ivan, can I stay for a while?”
Ivan was worried now, after tonight, if Till was okay by the morning, he might not have anywhere to go. Perhaps it was selfish of him to want to lie, to be grateful he was really depending on him now.
The Till who left Ivan for two years. Who found comfort in people who didn’t understand him, who just made him worse. The people, who before they stopped talking, constantly got him drunk or high.
Ivan stood, picking Till up with all of his effort. He walked slowly towards the bed, pulling back the covers, laying the two of them on the left side. Till still choked on his sore throat, his face and neck wet.
Here, was Till’s old shirt from middle school, still pulled over one of Ivan's pillows. On the bed frame were polaroids that Till took of himself. Besides his head was the stuffed animal Till sewed for his birthday.
And besides Ivan was Till.
“Don’t…” Ivan started, his eyes weighing more than he can bear. Till was turned away with a sense of shame and separation. But there wasn’t time for that. They didn’t have any longer to wait. Ivan crawled closer, pressing himself against his back, against the entirety of his body. Leg to leg, Ivan’s head in the furrow of his neck.
Till breathed slowly, and as Ivan wrapped his arms around him, he put his hand to Till’s chest. His heart beat, he's okay. Ivan was here.
“Don’t worry about it…don’t care how long you stay.”
Ivan's other arm wrapped under Till’s side, feeling out the gashes of his arm. He could hear short gasps, nothing he seemed to care about or he would have moved. His sharp fingers harshly grazed in and out of the cuts, his lovingly inflicted wounds.
This isn’t his Till, but it was Till. He was completely broken down. Ivan inhaled, his nose pressed against his nape, the smell of rain and some warm spice filling his mind.
He couldn’t hold onto his consciousness any more than this. But this was his end. Maybe he’ll fall to nothing, or maybe he could wake up. Wake up next to Till who finally needed him.
“I want you here.”
It wasn’t possible for Till to have let him stay like this forever. In the warmest spot of Ivan's heart, he was happy. Because in the reality of things, it was his fault that Ivan was like this. If Ivan never met him, maybe he wouldn’t have felt this glimpse of completion. He kissed the back of Till’s neck.
And his eyes finally shut. Till could never have left him ruined.
“Just stay.”