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A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.
===
It’s not where he thought he’d end up, but then again, there’s never been an excess of options.
Ivan is here surrounded by impossibly green grass, softer than it should be against his bare arms, with the sun bright enough to cheer but so soft against skin, like the rays reach down to caress with a gentleness previously unknown. It’s like a scene ripped out of the rich text of old and forsaken books, the sort he once thumbed through. Troves of fanciful tales with stories dripping in fantasies like freedom.
This moment, this place, would suit those tomes; the pages would be laden with lush language that would get them tossed aside by the aliens for its crude approximation of something unattainable.
( and ivan would still pick it up, docile and pliant and acknowledging of the foolish practice. he would read it front to back, and that would be that )
If he lies very still, flat-backed against this grass, the whole world and galaxy can pause for a second and sit with him. Wind from somewhere, from nowhere, can brush up against that impossibly green grass and make a song for him alone. The other pieces of prose can sneak into the space alongside the symphony—what passes for the sound of a bird, what a butterfly might look like, all these sensations taking form. Things he will never see, but he has found all the same.
He turns his cheek to the side, the green poking against his chin in childlike curiosity, and finds himself face-to-face with the buds of fresh red flowers. They sway gently, wiggling in some greeting, like how Mizi would wave her fingers when she was smaller, when they all were smaller. For once, the flowers aren’t mirrors—there is no surveillance in their center, only large dark voids.
Ivan looks at something that doesn’t look back.
The sun blinks below the horizon, departing its spot at the top of the sky with an unnatural quickness. He has spent enough time here to know the weather is manufactured, switching with every flux of feeling. Things simply come and go as they please.
“Ivan?”
He turns at the sound, syllables carried in the gentle arms of the wind. He turns towards Till, who is glazed in the newly come sunset. He’s still stretched upon the grass, sleep heavy in his limbs and lowering the lids of his eyes. Even as the light leaves the sky above them it takes its time, draping the last stores of orange warmth across his face as if to show off every line with a delicate hand and present it in the best way possible.
Ivan does not need the light to show him the best of Till.
It wouldn’t get it right anyway—no one can see all the beautiful things within themselves, for that is the role of the observer. And as Till’s observer, Ivan can speak true: The best of Till is all of him. Everything that he has uncovered beneath his skin and in-between his bones and in the taste of his blood upon his own unworthy tongue have proven this fact to be true.
Till is the light, the sun itself; he is bright with the stubborn faith he holds. He burns with that which is destined to set but equally destined to return. He is that which does not coexist with the night, the dark, but is forever bound to it all the same. He is shown to everyone, worthy or not, but at the least, is worshiped as he should be. He burns so brilliantly, and Ivan would gladly sink his hand straight into the flame.
For now, as the darkness takes hold, he sinks his hand straight into the soft strands of hair atop Till’s head.
It is a privilege of this space that he can reach him. In this place, they can sit together, an ending to this story that is sun-warmed skin and a patch of grass, stained with nothing but memories and dreams unfulfilled.
“Ivan?” Till asks again.
His eyes are lighter now, opening into the darkening sky and sparkling under the light of the stars. They widen as they catch upon his face, the placid air suddenly thickening with the weight of moisture as the pleasant winds stir into something colder.
Ivan continues the steady pace of his hand in Till’s hair, strands sliding through his fingers, not to be regathered. He turns from the tempest of Till’s face and tilts his chin up to the sky.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Till says nothing. The wind blows harder, the scent of rain about to burst exploding under his nose. His eyes run wild, flickering all about from Ivan’s eyes, to his mouth, his neck, a spot upon his shoulder. It should be gratifying but he isn’t there. Ivan pinches at the soft flesh of Till’s cheek until his face twists up into a scowl, forced to return to this strange present.
“Bastard! What the hell is—”
Ivan’s hand rests firmly on Till’s chin, pushing his head upwards forcefully, maneuvering it so that his eyes can look at nothing but the sky, bereft of the sun but absolutely littered with stars. The smallest lights, the most far-flung hopes, the remnants of those already gone, all sparkling and shining in the sky.
The fight drains away in an instant; the wind calms too. For a time, they lay just like that, nothing but silence and stars set between them.
Ivan wonders what they look like from the other side, if images could be passed to those who have left, he aches somewhere to know what they would think of the two of them. The star in his mind looks suspiciously like a little girl with clean-cut black hair. He wonders what the star in Till’s mind looks like.
If stars are love, then there is no telling what shines back into Till’s eyes. Is it Mizi? Is it music? Could he dare to suppose it might be something else?
“It’s not,” Till suddenly says. His voice is sharp as it cuts jagged lines through their peaceful viewing.
( of course )
Ivan hums, content to wait for an explanation he can already guess. His eyes are dark pools, filled with nothing on their own but left with perfect spaces for all the burning beings around him.
Till screws his eyes shut, “What about this is beautiful? All of it is gone. Nothing here is real.” He spits out every word, aiming for callousness and landing somewhere in the realm of caring too much.
“Who says?” Ivan asks.
“I know it’s not real,” Till mutters. “It can’t be, not when—”
“Why does it have to be real to be beautiful? To mean something?”
Till stops abruptly, his whole body tensing upon the grass like a perfect line drawn for the sake of a constellation. He opens his mouth a few times, only to close it once more.
Ivan tears his gaze away from Till, back up to the sky. The stars remain unchanged, even as fat raindrops begin to fall upon his face. “You of all people should understand that you don’t actually have to have something for it to be worth it. For it to change you.”
The wind rises again with a vengeance, whipping the strings of Ivan’s bangs into his eyes. It casts a distorted filter over Till as he rises over Ivan, pinning his wrists to the soaked grass, ferocity kindling in his newly opened eyes.
“If you’re gonna talk so damn much, then tell me why ?!” He demands, voice ragged and searching. “Why did you—why did Sua— why did any of you lose!? What was the fucking point of…”
( what was the point of it?)
The rain drowns out the rest of his words, falling endlessly in a pattern tired to the ear. Till falls too, dropping atop him with the dying push of the wind. His nose presses into the slot of Ivan’s shoulder, with no answer as to whether the wetness comes from the torrent or the tears.
The full weight of his body should feel impossibly heavy, but Till has never been anything but light.
“I won’t say sorry,” Ivan whispers. Each word is pressed gently into Till’s rain-soaked locks. There they can slide right off. “I’d do it again.”
( though I shouldn’t. though i should )
His arms wrap round Till’s back, a gift, in the way he can feel every bit of his body move underneath: every crevice and rise of flesh, each bone and the cartilage under his fingers. He’s certain he can feel it, every component of Till’s body, just as he can feel the ghost of a collar if he raises his fingertips to the nape of the neck. He touches slowly, carefully, every movement a careful act of devotion.
The latch mechanism would be here, if it was anything but raw skin. Ivan plays a perfect part, delicate twistings of his hands in their farcical show, themes of fantasies like freedom in their movements. Ivan politely doesn’t comment when the motion of his fingers makes Till’s breath hitch, and his body shudder.
The scene’s blocking is too effective. Perhaps he thought he’d never feel this again. Perhaps he hates the feeling of Ivan’s touch. Perhaps it is something else entirely.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
He’d be here forever, thinking this over, if Till wasn’t squirming; thrashing in his hold like some enraged kitten furious about being left in the downpour.
Ivan doesn’t want to, but he releases him. He’s good like that.
He expects Till to bolt, to rise up and carry the rain and the interest and the meaning away with him. Yet Till has never once been predictable, even if he is reliable— he pushes himself up again, legs straddling either side of Ivan’s hips, and he wraps his beautiful, beautiful hands around Ivan’s throat.
He’s not pressing hard enough, Ivan muses.
Like this, he’ll never get anything done. How very typical of him to play at violence and rage, and never follow through.
Till’s eyes bore into him, his gaze still wild but tinged with weariness. The light is blinding, but that is not important to a man starved for sunlight.
Till stares at him. Till stares at him. Till stares at HIM.
In this place, Ivan looks at something and Till stares back.
His eyes and hands grace the unholy site of Ivan’s body—like he is a foreign god reaching down from the heavens. His god is calloused, proof of proficiency etched into the very makeup of his being. It’s a shame those marks can’t be passed on, a bit of him pressed into Ivan, the signature of a star permanently upon his skin.
( if he pressed harder, perhaps. perhaps, perhaps, perhaps)
But Till will never press harder. It’s not in his nature. His fingers shake and his face reddens, and he is always so wonderfully expressive, raw with honesty— so bold, and incapable of faking a thing.
What must it be like to live that way? Alas, it’s not for him to find out.
Till grips him hard, as though he will fall if his strength lapses for a second. “Why?!” he demands, desperation rising with each repetition.
The rain pours down, dropping onto Ivan’s face. When he sticks his tongue out, it’s seasoned with salt of tears. A delicacy for someone like him.
Till’s grip on his neck tightens once more before he seems to give up, slumping back and turning to the sky. He’s so willing now that it’s not Ivan’s hand guiding him, even though the sight can’t be as nice now, not when the stars are covered by the thick grief of dark clouds. Ivan’s view, at least, is as glorious as ever .
“Why are you still smiling?”
Ivan’s brow raises; he touches the shape of his own mouth—and huh, he is smiling. The curve of it doesn’t seem like a pretty one either, it feels… it feels like something he can’t name.
“I don’t know,” Ivan whispers. “I don’t know the answer to your earlier questions either. I just know that you’re here, and the way that makes me feel… it burns. It’s good.”
Laughter like a weak dog’s bark fills the air. “How can you just say shit like that?”
The rain between them has lightened, a waterfall reduced to a drizzle, but thunder cracks through the sky irritation made known.
“I’m selfish,” he says, schooling his grin back into something practiced and perfect.
Till scowls, “Stop making that face.”
He does, obedient as ever, but as payment takes his hand to the sharp edge of Till’s jaw. They have time for this, for his gentle perusal. Ivan swipes up to Till’s mouth, transforming the taste once embedded on his tongue, into a memory of touch burned against his thumb.
A million emotions flicker across Till’s face, complexities so rich it would take Ivan ages to distinguish them all. Most of them are painful, hard to look at.
( so ivan doesn’t blink once, lest they’re gone with no one to understand them )
He knows enough to pause, to wait, and follow Till’s lead.
In time Till contains himself. Ivan thinks he sees the war in his head; the way he knows the depth of what is felt for him, but how he can’t reconcile that with everything else. It wasn’t for the show, but then what was it for?
What was anything they ever did for?
( isn’t love so needlessly complicated? )
“What you did was horrible– it– it messed me up. He used you,” Till admits. “Or maybe I did. It all melted together.”
Ivan’s chest burns hotter than ever. “Shouldn’t it not matter? It wasn’t real.”
Till glares weakly, fingers flexing again with the urge to grab. Ivan bares his neck willingly, but disappointingly Till doesn’t take the offer. The rain has all but stopped, reduced to little taps against the surface of it all.
“All I could think about was everything I didn’t have. Where were the people that loved me? Where was my reason for living?”
Till plucks a flower up from the ground, rolling the petals around until they’ve contorted into a ball he can barely maintain. “You, Sua, even Mizi. You all had something you would die for. I thought I did. I had music. I had this want to prove something, to make it clear I was worth something.”
He releases the flower, and in a move that takes his breath away, stares straight into Ivan. “I wasn’t wrong, but I think— I think I missed a lot. Real or not.”
It’s Ivan’s turn for his breath to hitch, for his body to tense briefly. He is greedy, and covetous and being handed so much all at once, desperate to hold all of it. He is understanding before it all. In the time he spent here without Till, he has realized there was much he missed too.
“It’s not as though they raised us to see anything more,” he replies.
“Nah,” Till is silent for a long while, soft in it. “We’d never have had this there, would we?”
( because want and love and goodness are sometimes not enough)
“No. We wouldn’t have.”
“We should’ve,” Till sighs. “We all should’ve. Mizi and Sua and—“
And maybe Ivan doesn’t care as much about the rest, but he feels it too. That aforementioned ache, that wretched unkindness of the world. He wished they had that softness, even if they at least have something now. It’s enough for Ivan, but for Till, Till who wears and feels everything he can find:
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” Ivan asks.
“ Yeah . Yeah, I am.”
The rain stops, and though the sun is long gone the night still gleams. the clouds move, slowly but surely to bring back the stars. Ivan pulls Till down, his own star out of the sky. Fallen like this he cannot return, but Ivan will hold him like he is a precious treasure, for he is.
Nothing can change. That which is written, what’s been played out, it’s all done. they loved. The others loved. Till loved more than Ivan thinks he might ever be capable of. And nothing changed, it couldn’t.
But it mattered. Even if it didn’t make something move. Even if it wasn’t real. And now they’re here.
Ivan can’t erase all the horrible things done to him. He can’t remove the memories of what they’ve done to Till. He can’t do anything but hold him now.
I’m here. You see me. Let me hold you close.
He holds Till close for all the times he couldn’t, savoring this sweet sensation of being allowed. Till fits so nicely against him, and he holds on so tight in return. There is no fear left, no inevitability to threaten this moment being ripped away.
“I’m not gonna say sorry either,” Till mutters, tightening his hold on Ivan’s waist. He twines their legs together and shoves his head underneath Ivan’s palm, the silent demand for touch loud in the language of Till. It’s a marvel, Ivan thinks, how he is still so forceful, even cradled as he is.
“But I’m glad it’s you here,” he continues, “I have one less regret.”
Ivan has many regrets. Too many. Could he have been better? Kinder? More charming? Is there a world out there where he did the right things, said the right words, and never knew what it felt like for Till to let go of his hand?
In that world, would they still end up here?
A conceit of living bound to elude him this time, though it’s still hard to say if they did live . They loved and they struggled, and they did what they could. Maybe the living would come next time if such a thing exists.
Maybe he’d be lucky enough to see that next with Till, yet that’s hard to know. Would Till want that too? Would his next self even realize the significance of an angry boy with a heart too big for his body?
( yes yes yes)
A sharp sting on his nose draws him back into the moment. overhead the stars are beginning to fall one by one.
“You’re thinking too hard. It’s giving your face a weird look.”
It probably is, he’s lost in so many weird thoughts. He was wrong about so many things, but what’s the point of sitting with that now?
“Would you stay with me?” Ivan asks, voice low.
Would you look at me? Would you live with me again? Would you love me? Would you want me? Would you hold me? Would you would you would you would you would you?
Till’s face twists into something that could only be disbelief, “Why else would I be here?”
Here is a place without a name. It is everything the garden could never be, all while wearing its face. Ivan raises his hand, hesitant ( reverent ), tracing the path of Till’s face again because he can .
Here is a place without a name. How can they give it one when they never knew its likeness? Here is a place of love, and life despite every sign saying it shouldn’t be.
“I would’ve gone somewhere else if I hadn’t wanted to see you, idiot. Did you think you meant nothing?”
The vulgarity of the words is horribly fragile.
( yes he did. in his twisted way he hoped that’s what he meant. nothing lost nothing gained.)
Till sinks further into Ivan’s body, the individuality of their skin melding and mixing into something new; he moves like he can’t be close enough. I won’t leave you. Don’t leave me. His flesh and bone speak louder than even he. Ivan at last holds the sun in his arms, but he is a fool with wax wings. He will always crave more, he will not falter for fear of a fall.
“Did you love me?” he asks, “Do you?”
Till is silent for a long time. Ivan draws music notes on the back of his shirt. Sharp, rest, flat, stop. The stars streak all against the sky, beautiful and fleeting. The breeze brushes against their skin with the smell of sweet flowers.
The hold of Till’s arms tightens, and he speaks without making eye contact.
“I don’t know. I think sometimes I hated you,” the words are hot against the skin of Ivan’s neck. “Other times I…”
Till trails off and Ivan can do nothing but grin, even knowing that the edges are stretching out and becoming off-kilter, horribly crooked and terribly genuine.
It’s a relief to know he was not alone in his confusion. He doesn’t know what he’d have done if Till had said yes. Ivan’s not even sure if he himself loved, and if he did how he had loved. He did everything he could, in the ways he knew how– but he knew so little. So precious few things beyond hold and keep, and he knows better than most that possession is not a substitute for care.
“I understand,” Ivan whispers, and then he hedges his bets. “So next time, don’t let go of my hand.”
Till hides his face further in Ivan’s neck. It doesn’t conceal the pink overtaking his face, and Ivan is sure his own reflection matches for how he likes the idea: that Till thinks he is safe, that they can touch without violence.
“Fine. Next time I won’t. Maybe then we’ll figure something out.”
He says it with such ferocity, such sureness. Ivan laughs and lets it burst out of him in an ungainly fashion, his joy drenching the both of them.
(“why does it have to be real to be beautiful? to mean something?”
“maybe one day it will be real. maybe it means something as it is.”)
He brushes his nose against Till’s own and studies that beautiful face in the streaking cosmic light.
“Stop staring,” Till scoffs. “It's time to rest.”
It is. Ivan himself was the one to point out that he must be tired. They’ve done enough now.
He lets himself bathe in the sparks pouring out of every feature of the sun; lets it blind his eyes till they succumb to darkness. In the void, there are only peaceful beats, a private percussion snippet just for him. A soft pressure graces his forehead, and a body pushes even further against his own.
“Thanks,” Till whispers, soft, so soft.
(beautiful, so beautiful.)
It could mean so much, so much that he might or might not deserve or understand. But tucked into the words, hidden and waiting, there is a promise: Next time.
Maybe then. Maybe then it would be that simple.
Thank you, I love you.
There’s no way to know now.
Now, the stars finish their journey to the ground and they shine their light on the impossibly green grass, softer than it should be, but soft as they deserve. it’s like a scene ripped out of the rich text of old and forsaken books, but this one is special. It has a cover that calls out to the stars, and contains a tale that reaches its conclusion after great trials and grants its character respite at last.
It is not where Ivan thought he’d be, but then again there is more than what he alone thought. There is more to find out.
Maybe next time, he’d find it: in the next book where freedom is not a fancy dream, where love is easily given and understood— maybe then he’ll find something. But here, at the end of this page, at the end of the comet with its tail shining against the dark sky all wide for its display, here in this place without a name:
Something has found him.