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Ivan’s mind couldn't be described as anything other than a dark, endless expanse of nothing but void. It took form situationally— he had stood in it many, many times, more than he could count in a thousand years, but it felt foreign and like a stranger to him every time. Moreso with each visit if that was possible. But if his presence in a place like that was possible, the real question was “what isn't?” He had gotten lost in it every time he found himself there, any words he spoke returning off the walls in new words with the same tongue. An echo chamber was what it was, one that blurred the line between reality and surreality. When he found himself at the mercy of his unconscious mind, his perception of everything around him warped. Hours could pass in minutes; fluorescent, still lights could dance in circles for hours; and he could exist in two places at a time without getting lost in the others’ mind.
Usually in this mindscape he only saw himself— himself as both the scientist and the lab experiment, himself as the giver and the receiver, and himself as the victim and the perpetrator. But as of late, a new parasite has wormed its way firmly into his mind and refused to leave.
Andrew.
His vessel for everything he could've been. It was scary when it unraveled, when he slipped from his grasp and disappeared, scattering to the wind. Ivan couldn't hold him from the pedestal he had put him on prior, but now that he was gone, he was ever present in his mind. All-consuming. But a part of him, now.
He had been told by a fragment of his mind that something was wrong about the way he felt. He hated to hear it, but he came to realize that it was the truth after a particular vision.
Andrew was kneeling on his knees, hands folded behind his back. He smiled up at Ivan as he approached. A loving smile, which he perceived as an oath of violence. He had seen this same thing many times. Each time, he found himself with a different weapon in his hand, his love language— sometimes, a gun, and he trusted him not to shoot; sometimes, a knife, and he told him where to cut; sometimes, a chisel, and he built him up and wore him down; and sometimes, it was just his bare fists, and he broke his bones with all the love his body carried.
This time, an axe. After countless nights of forsaking it, ignoring the whispers that told him to grab it and swing, he had it thrust into his hands. Andrew wasn't scared, no, he never was here. He was always complacent, willing to just take it and accept it.
Ivan wished he was like that always. He favored the look on his face. He'd always rather look into his eyes, he'd prefer it over looking into the eyes of god, for goodness’ sake!
But the moment couldn't last forever, and he knew that. Jr was always the same song and dance, and breaking away from the routine would be like teaching sheep to herd dogs. A dream within a dream, but vain in the end.
Without any hesitation, Ivan raised the axe and brought it down on Andrew’s head. He did it again. And again. And again. Until the gash was big enough for him. Until it was big enough for him to crawl into, for him to offer up everything and all his love, for him to finally become one with the person he loved so dearly.
The pain in his hands brought him back to reality.
As he stared ahead, all he could see was bits of himself staring back, distorted. His hands were gripping his axe tightly, so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The axe’s head was firmly planted into the mirror before him. Ivan quickly jerked back, removing his hands from the axe and staring down at them. Splinters. He should've known when to let go.
— — — —
Ivan’s legs quivered beneath him, but as much as he willed them to stop moving and go still, they continued.
The palaces and cathedrals of paragraphs and senseless sentences he had built from the ground up with and for Andrew had crumbled around him. Everything was rubble, blurring in an odd purple mist, aside for one thing. Stairs. Stairs that went up a hill he couldn't see, similar to those unfinished stairs to nowhere one would find in an old forest. He had started up them strong, his determination and curiosity being enough of a motive to keep him going. Over time, he began to feel weaker. His head, light, his body, shaking. At some point, one of his legs gave up on him. It dragged behind him limp and malignant. The climb felt like more of an agonizing crawl, with each step cutting him open further and spilling his guts out on the ground like a gorey version of bread crumbs. Of course, it was more of a sensation— a phantom feeling in the moment, rather than something he thought was happening. It was one of the few times his mind had the clarity and strength to separate those things.
He found the strength to rise to his feet only when he reached the top.
Upon a throne made of scrap metal and rubble was Andrew. Or, what was left of him for Ivan. His head was nearly split in two down the middle. A war raged inside of Ivan’s chest at the sight. It was a lethal, burning sensation. However, when the metal of any weapons in the fight clashed, it melted. It melted into a pile of ooze that blurred the line between the two contrasting feelings. Ivan couldn't tell them apart if he tried.
He dragged himself over to the body, reaching out a trembling hand and caressing its cheek. It felt so real, it had to be. There was no way it wasn't.
Ivan wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or not, but he could've sworn flowers were growing out of the gash on Andrew’s head. Many shades of red, dotted with black. As he softly held Andrew's head, the flowers decayed rapidly. Ivan wasn't sure if he wanted to scream or cry at the sight. He wasn't sure if he should laugh, apologize, or say that he loved him still. Any words felt like a death sentence in his mouth. His eyes stinging, he opened his mouth to speak. Instead of proper words coming out, he hacked and wheezed. No closure was squeezed out of him by the coughing fit, only flowers— in all their glory, too. Petals, roots, leaves, thorns, and all. The waning, miserable poet still remained holding onto his beautiful unfinished poem. He yearned to finish writing it, but he knew there was no time. He had run out a long time ago.
One hand on his own chest and one hand on Andrew’s cheek, Ivan leaned closer to what was left of his face and planted a kiss there. It was feathery— tentative, light, and oh-so brief. He would've stayed there forever if he could've. Maybe it would've been nepenthe for his troubled soul. As he pulled back, Ivan’s vision began to blur. Just having his eyes open and looking around stung. As he stood up straight, he felt as though he was shoved backwards. Staggering, Ivan began to fall all the way back down the stairs. From the top, his dreams, aspirations, all that garbage all disappearing from him in a moment’s notice. As he fell, no wind tugged at him. His surroundings were falling out of touch, slowly fading away. As he fell, he asked no one in particular, “why did you make me hurt my Andrew?” The words didn't echo, staying still within the confines of his mind and lingering in the bitter, rapidly decaying air. Ivan hardly had the time to figure out who he was addressing before the scenery disappeared around him, being replaced by a dull city and horizontally smeared lights. Rain whipped at his body, which was already a sinking ship. The storm only served to add salt to the wound. Was it rain, or was it coming from his eyes? Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.
Unlike the many life-or-death scenarios he had painted in his past and made real himself, he felt no fear. Nothing was chasing him, nothing was going to happen, and there was nothing more he had to do. He would have his legacy, one way or another. Everyone would see, and his demise would be a grand spectacle. Even Andrew would see. Ohh, Andrew. His love, his life. If he lost his Andrew, wouldn't he lose his viability too? It was only a fair exchange. His last thought before he sank in his despair fully was how Andrew would react to this, before his body was raptured as it hit the ground. Bones fractured and pierced his flesh in awkward angles, his insides bled out, and his mind went out as fast as a light. But it kept raining. Cars kept driving and people kept walking. No one stops for someone with no history, with no legacy.
— — — —
Andrew had found a place to stay. It was a small place far enough from the city. Barbara Palmer Drive, Boxwood Plaza. Of course, it wouldn't last forever. Hardly anything but memories did. But it was where he could survive for now. Anything to escape Ivan. Even if it meant living nowhere. Now that he was alone with his thoughts, it felt a bit irrational. But what was he meant to do, stay there and just take it?
He was pacing through his temporary place one day when he passed by the television, which he had left on overnight. A poor choice, but he felt too numb and drained to comprehend the possible consequences. The TV was playing the local news. He originally just threw a glance at the screen, but stopped in his tracks and stared at it in disbelief when he saw what they were talking about.
Someone had jumped off an apartment building late into the night yesterday. He told himself it was someone else, somewhere else, but it was the same apartment building that Ivan lived at, and hell, the person being talked about had the same name too.
The discovery felt like salicylic acid to his skin, with ice cold water to help soothe the burning.
All Ivan did was hurt the people around him that loved him, all he did was be a malignant thought in the back of his head at all times, and he still got what he wanted. The publicity, the legacy. It was too cruel to be true. Andrew swallowed nervously. It had to be just some cruel stunt for attention, a ploy to get Andrew to come back and fall back into his trap.
Despite how unbelievable it was, it felt extremely possible to Andrew.
Some part of him, some nagging voice in his consciousness— it begged. It pleaded, “but, please don't.” It hurt more than it was worth when he was still there, but there was something in him that despised the idea of being all alone with no more ties, of being effectively cut off from the world. Of him dying thinking he wanted him gone. He scolded himself for the thought, but he couldn't help but wish he never left. Honestly, it felt disgusting to even think that.
He leaned on the couch between him and the TV, placing his head in his hands. Maybe Ivan did love him— of course, Ivan still hated him at the same time, and that was clear, but he couldn't blame him for that. It was just how it was. His hands shielding his eyes as he stood there alone and shaking pathetically, Andrew whispered three useless words to himself.
“But, please don't.”