Work Text:
”Well, if you’re just so much smarter than me, what do you think we should do?!”
Ivan looked at the single slice of bread sitting on the cloth between them and then up at the pouting boy who’d just shouted at him. Two mouths and too little food–a common dilemma wild humans faced, and since becoming ones, they were not immune to trying to piece together a solution.
The problem wasn’t eating it, Anakt knew they could ravage the stale subsistence as if it were a delicacy. But when? Till argued they eat it now and find more food in the morning; a fine idea if they hadn’t already been doing that the past two days. It was more logical, in Ivan’s opinion, that they wait until they absolutely needed it.
Humans could last 30–sometimes 60–days without food, and that would only ever be the worst case scenario. The last time they argued over this topic Ivan had informed him of this fact, but that had only made Till grow teary eyed and loud. He opted to refrain from using that argument again.
Instead, Ivan shrugged and stated plainly, “I already told you. We should wait.”
Till threw his hands up, his body exploding in the same fury it always had, “That’s not fair! At least let me have my half!” His words choked off into a wail by the end of his outburst. Once a crybaby, always a crybaby.
It almost felt sweet, the way Ivan’s traitorous chest would twist at the familiarity. The idea that the boy sitting across from him is the very same he’d pulled from the garden that night; a rose that once knew the bush but now grows on brick walls with the same vibrancy. No thanks to Ivan, all he’d ever done is let Till’s red petals reflect onto his eyes–a permanent mark Ivan would bear all his life.
In the garden, Till’s life had been filled with bruises bestowed upon him by his guardian. Now, his knees were covered in scratches and his cheeks were hollow; a physical reminder of what Ivan’s selfish thievery had done.
Would he only ever be able to hurt Till? Was there a world, as distant as it may be, where he nursed the boy’s ailments instead of causing them? Every path to that ideal felt too little, too late, and too luminous.
He had surely fallen far too deep into his parasitic pursuit of Till if this is what it amounted to. Till was starving on the streets he should’ve never been acquainted too, and for what? For Ivan to feel he could be half the human Till was?
Since he had been born into such unfavorable circumstances, Ivan tried to look at every situation as someone who was level-headed and logical. So, it didn’t take long for him to solve this puzzle; with his own two hands he’d promised Till escape but had given him yet another form of cruelty.
Ivan would pray to Anakt–if he believed in Its divinity–that someone, anyone, would see Till’s light and stow him away to a life he could never guarantee. But Ivan also knew he wouldn't live long without it, so instead of praying, he pushed the bread closer to Till and said, “Okay. Eat.”
Till sniffled–his eyes jumping from Ivan to the bread. Then, slowly, he began reaching for the slice only for his fingers to stall midway through the air before dropping completely into his lap. “What about,” Till paused, squeezing his eyebrows together, “What about you?”
”Me?” Ivan asked, but he knew perfectly well what Till meant. While he could never hate anything about Till, he'd never liked when the boy tried to tune his sensitive mind into Ivan’s twisted wavelength.
Before he’d grown to crave it, he’d always seen Till’s volatile naivety as dim-witted and ignorant. Who picked flowers while the cuts across his body were still bleeding? Who in his right mind worried about the monster dragging him through Hell? It was a rhetorical question that Ivan never needed to answer because his mind echoed with ‘Till’ either way.
”Well, you’ll eat too… right?” Till mumbled, twisting his fingers into his pants.
Dim-witted and ignorant. Till. Till. Rose petals and as many metaphors it would take to give this feeling a name. Till.
Ivan shook his head, “I can wait.”
Waiting. Wait. Someone who’s volatile and naive. Craving. A burning sky with the only directive being ‘out.’ Or was it Till? Till. Till. Till.
Till huffed, crossing his arms and turning to stare at nothing in particular, “You’re stupid. Nevermind.” And just like that, after spending so much of the energy they didn’t have arguing for a piece of bread, Till resigned to starve another night away.
It would be easy, incredibly so, to eat half of the bread so Till would too. With just one action, he could quell both Till’s hunger and childish worry. He could perform an act of humanity for the only person who made him feel human with a single bite. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.
Because eating the bread would mean admitting that–on some basis–Till’s worry for him had been warranted. And worse, Till may start to think he needs to fret over Ivan often. He wasn’t sure he could ever reconcile with the image of someone as substantial as Till using his never-ending well of humanity on him.
It was simpler to let Till grow to resent throwing bones of kindness Ivan’s way than to let him grow accustomed to it.
Ivan felt the universe would click into place once Till finally lost all pretense that he had to treat him like a human. “You threw a tantrum and now you won’t eat? That’s not very smart,” Ivan commented dryly before adding, “But, like you said, I’m the smarter one.”
Something sparked in his eyes, and for a hopeful moment, Ivan thought Till would punch him the same way he did when they were younger. He wouldn’t be so lucky. Instead of throwing a fist into Ivan’s jaw, the boy twisted his mouth, settling it into something ugly. The rest of his face was quick to follow.
With a growl, Till grumbled, “That won’t work on me.”
”What won’t work?” Ivan prodded. If he kept going like this, Till’s fists may not turn mean but his words would; that’s all Ivan could really ask for these days–the only guarantee he’d ever dared to want from Till.
Till narrowed his eyes, “I’m not eating unless you do too.”
Why did Till always have to say the most impossible things? Equating their hungers as if that word had ever meant the same thing to them–as if Ivan wasn’t prepared to starve the second he put them in this situation.
Yet, there he was, pouting and demanding that they share something that wouldn’t make them feel full or whole anyway. It was foolish. An utterly idiotic way to live when survival was far from promised to them. What would happen when Till kept playing the wrong moves?
Though chess invokes a better image, Ivan couldn’t imagine Till knew the rules of anything more complex than checkers. Either way, it didn’t matter which side of the table Till would be sitting on because his opponent would always be the circumstances of their life. If Ivan couldn’t play for him, how could he make sure Till knew how to play?
He’d teach him, of course. And worrying about a selfish mirror of a human was the quickest way to lose. If he played right, Ivan could take just enough pieces for Till to understand the child's play of checkers and force life into a stalemate. With or without him, Ivan didn’t mind.
At the end of the day, Till’s survival was the only thing that mattered to Ivan. His own life, while he did not wish to lose it, was secondary. And despite his efforts to get Till to do the educated thing, he’d let Till eat the bread every single time.
If it meant he’d go hungry, he was doing it for Till. If it meant he’d need to wait until they found more, he was waiting for Till. If it meant he’d starve, he was starving for Till. If it sapped the last of his energy away, he was dying for Till.
Death never seemed as daunting when he thought about doing it for Till.
As a human, he’s biologically dispositioned to fear death and avoid it when faced with its out-reached hands. Ivan has never been one to crave death; though, he knows some do. He does not want to die for Till, but that does not change the fact he would.
It's selfish, his reasoning. He knows that, in the position they’re in, Till would not make it very long without him. The boy’s survival instincts are about as abundant as the bread still resting between them. Knowing this, Ivan would still die content because he would’ve never been forced to live in a world without Till’s light.
On the off chance Till ever did go before him, Ivan feels he may just override his biology and join him soon after.
Though there’s no point fretting over that now. They aren’t in immediate danger and Till was still frowning at Ivan. “It’s fine. I’m not hungry.”
”Stop lying!” Till burst out, slamming clenched fists into his lap, “Are you trying to prove you’re right?!” His entire body quivered like an earthquake had been consolidated into him. Till fumbled with his hands before yanking up the bread aggressively, crumbs breaking off as he squished it between his fingers.
”Right about what–”
Till tackled him to the ground, and for a beautiful moment, Ivan felt he was right where he belonged. At the whims of Till’s violence, he wouldn’t mind staying there forever. Then Till smashed the bread against Ivan’s closed mouth.
The precious scrap they had been preserving crumbled as Till kept shoving more and more intently. Pieces scattered, being strewn onto the dirty ground, smudged onto Ivan’s face, and compacted into Till’s fist.
Ivan wasn’t focussed on the crumbs coating his lips or the primal voice screaming at him to open his mouth and consume what he still could. He was too distracted by Till’s weight on top of him. If others could feel such a devastating thing, they’d worship Till with the same devotion Ivan did.
Soon enough, hot droplets began hitting Ivan’s face, joining the decrepit state of what used to be bread. Till heaved out sobs, nearly collapsing completely onto him through the sheer force of them. One would escape before another could finish ringing out, cascading on top of each other as a disjointed orchestra.
Till’s body shook and so did his voice as he wept out, “Eat it, jerk! Eat it!” Tears overflowed down his cheeks, uncontrollable in a way they’d always been. Ivan would lick Till’s face clean if he’d let him.
Hot tears on his face. A weight on his lap. Bread crumbs all over him. All because of Till. Till. Till. Till.
At some point, Till had dropped whatever remained of the bread and gripped at Ivan’s collar, shaking him with a surprising force. “What are you doing,” he wailed between the sobs, “What are you doing?!”
And, oh, could there ever be anything more heavenly than the boy dripping tears, snot, and saliva right above him? Ivan was selfish enough to be glad they’d both go hungry because of this, devilish enough to want to grab Till and never set him free, and just human enough to wonder why Till was crying.
After shaking him didn’t seem to have the effect Till was looking for, he started slamming weak, shaky fists into Ivan’s chest. His agonized cries slowly soothing into pathetic wheezes and sniffles.
”Idiot,” a fist. “Stupid,” a fist. “Say something,” a fist.
Ivan blinked up at Till, taking in the most beautiful sight he’d ever been exposed to. “Cheer up.”
As if those two words were scissors cutting Till’s strings, he fell forward onto Ivan. He wrapped his arms around him, fisting at the fabric of his shirt like Ivan would leave otherwise. It’s foolish. Where would Ivan even go?
Ivan snaked his arms around Till too, cementing the shaking body against his own. WIth nowhere else to go and no dreams of anywhere else, Ivan settled onto the ground. The cold concrete seeped into his back while he pulled the warmth from the figure on top of him. If he had to choose between living or dying at this moment, he’d choose living because a corpse couldn’t experience this.
A dead body couldn’t feel the rise and fall of Till’s lungs or his breath staggering against Ivan’s skin. A dead body couldn’t feel the way Till’s grasp loosened and how his hands moved to cup Ivan’s face instead. A dead body couldn’t feel warmth being torn away from it or see green eyes looking down in uncertainty.
Ivan himself questioned if he was feeling things properly when Till swiped his tongue over Ivan’s cheek. He’d pinch himself if that didn’t mean he’d have to first let go of Till. Instead, he had to trust his mind not to be hallucinating the whole thing–which, at this point, was certainly a possibility.
Because in what world would Till be so kind as to use Ivan as a plate? Anakt must’ve blessed him despite his sinful nature.
He offered no complaint–because he had none–as Till continued lapping the crumbs off of his face. Till was eating and would survive another day; not because what he was doing offered any caloric fill, but because Ivan needed to stay alive to remember this sensation. And if Ivan needed to stay alive, Till needed to as well.
Till cleaned one side of his face and then the other. His tongue felt slimy and colder than Ivan would’ve assumed against his face. Each new trail of saliva left a tacky, almost unbearable texture on his skin. But for Till he’d bear it, for Till he’d enjoy it.
Once both cheeks were void of evidence that anything had ever happened, Till moved to Ivan’s chin. In one drawn out motion, Till licked upwards over his lips and up to his nose. Ivan wondered what he did in life to ever be deserving of such a lovely act.
Seemingly satisfied, Till leaned back and stared at Ivan–who stared back because he was certain there was nothing else he ever could do. No matter how deserving of Hell he knew himself to be, Ivan thought that–maybe–he’d already died and this was Heaven.
The god in his lap furrowed his brows; surely contemplating Ivan’s judgment. He, selfishly, hoped Till would spit on him next or hit him or hug him again. Even better, he wished for Till to let him lick him back, so he too could learn what the sweat on another’s skin tasted like.
The Great Anakt, in all Its power, decided It knew better than Ivan ever had, for Till answered none of his prayers. Instead, Till bowed his head and pressed his lips firmly against Ivan’s. Neither he nor Till closed their eyes, and Ivan had never felt less human.
He was a worshiper, a devoted follower, but nowhere near a human. A human could’ve told you what the look in Till’s eyes meant, but Ivan could never begin to articulate the half of it. He could tell you how chapped Till’s lips were, how warm his body was, and how his own stomach felt like it was blooming a rose bush–but never why Till looked so sad while doing it.
At this rate, he’d melt into the concrete and Till would have to face its cold surface alone. Would Till press his lips against the ground he used to lay too? Would he remember that once there was a boy named Ivan before there was the cold? Would he be allowed to follow Till even once his body had been consumed completely?
Ivan wanted Till to stop pressing their lips together soon because if he really did fall victim to the concrete sucking him in, he’d never get to be truly consumed by Till.
He was a dog. Till had slipped steak to him under the table and now he’d be waiting there forever. He would be waiting his entire life for Till to bite his skin until it broke, drink the blood from his arteries, and lick the inside of his mouth the same, gentle way he’d cleaned him.
Now, Ivan realized he should’ve taught Till how to play chess against life instead of checkers. Because Till, his ever naive Till, had let a pawn turn into a rook. A rook that would stop at nothing to make sure Till could never escape into the board. A rook Till would have to capture to ever know what the word ‘alone’ means.
Till had allowed Ivan to sink his canines far too deep into his flesh and now he’d never let go.
Leaning back, Till quickly wiped his mouth, “Sorry! Was that weird?”
”Yeah. Really weird.” Is what Ivan is pretty sure he said. He couldn’t tell what was coming out of his mouth anymore, not after Till had claimed it as his own.
Till scoffed and rolled off of Ivan, “Shut up.” He crawled back into the space he’d occupied before jumping across the distance. Then he crossed his arms and began staring into the distance ahead of them. As quickly as the warmth had come, it had left.
Ivan stared at his everything before turning to stare at nothing with him instead.
Dear Great Anakt,
Thank you for such a lovely gift. I’d ask you to protect Him, but I suppose a divine figure doesn’t need protecting. Instead, please protect me, so I can spend all my seconds with Him. I’d like to spend a long time with Him. A very long time. Please.
Yours truly, an idolater.