to me you are black sorrow

Even through his own embarrassed crisis, Till notices the rare notes of desperation and anxiety in Ivan’s tone. Had been close enough to him earlier to feel the way Ivan had held his breath.

“Hey.” Till frowns, dropping his marker and holding the hand Ivan placed over his instead. “Breathe.”

Till looks up to meet Ivan’s eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezes Ivan’s hand before letting it go, picking up his marker and dropping his gaze down to Ivan’s wrist again. His face flushed, Till unexpectedly finds himself blinking back tears.

“…Th-thanks for telling me that. That… it means a lot to me, hearing you say that.” More than Ivan could possibly know. Till wishes so badly that he could tell him.

Till tries to draw over Ivan’s brand, but to his dismay, the pigment won’t stick to the slick silvery surface of the metal. It’s almost enough to make Till cry again, the way he can’t love away the things that have hurt Ivan.

Still, the mark Ivan accidentally made is already there, so, undeterred, Till begins to draw around the brand. A segmented body weaves between each of the letters, legs coming right up to the silver edges, until a centipede takes shape—not covering the brand, but embracing it closely instead.

“I… I didn’t know you weren’t coming to the cafe because of me…” Till is shocked. Another way Ivan is different now, for some unexplainable reason, than the one he knew. Till presses their shoulders together.

“It… it wouldn’t bother me if you came by…” Till admits, hesitantly. “I… I’d actually really like you to.” He scowls up at Ivan briefly, “as long as you behave yourself while I’m trying to work! …I think you’d really like the animals… And you know Ritsuka… And it’d be nice to have you there when I’m feeling kinda overwhelmed…”

Maybe it wasn’t the best, the way they rarely asked each other about the daily minutiae of each other’s lives, but that didn’t change the fact that they didn’t. Ivan reaching for small talk now tugs Till’s worry into sharper focus.

“You don’t have to do that,” Till says softly, but not unkindly. He decorates the centipede with little edelweiss flowers; there’s no reason why a bug should be deprived of beautiful things as well. “Yes, there are cats there—Yvain is super jealous—I can show you them when you stop by soon. The reason I ask is… I’ve been thinking a lot about the future, I guess. I like working there, but I don’t think I could do it full time, y’know? I’m not like you: you know how I get around people…”

Unlike Ivan, who seems to charm everyone he meets, Till has always been touchy around crowds. Shy at the best of times, and easily agitated at the worst, that sort of excess energy was great when he was an idol so he could channel it into his performances, but at a customer service job…

“That, and I’m not sure how well I’d do taking orders from most people…” Probably not very well. “So all that's got me wondering if maybe… maybe opening up my own business would be the right choice for me… And I was wondering what you might think about that...”

Eager to have something else to do with his hands, Till glances over Ivan’s broad shoulders.

But...

Exhaling, he lets go of the breath he was holding, nodding. It's all he can manage when Till told him that he wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't fair that now he had to be the one stunned into silence. He watches as Till tries and cover his brand, a rueful smile crawling across his features briefly before Till starts drawing a centipede.

(Ah), that forces his face back into neutrality (does he...know about that?) Luckily, he doesn't have to worry overlong about that, listening to Till talk about his job. "If you don't mind, I can stop by." He almost phrases it as a sentence.

"I didn't think bugging you at work would be professional." Certainly implying that he likely wouldn't have been able to refrain from bothering Till. "Especially since you don't do well with people. We want to keep your image as alright as possible for Miss Ritsuka."

He doesn't hesitate to take off his shirt when prompted, thinking about what Till had brought up before then. Running his own business - Ivan wanted to say, oh, it appears he was saying it now- "I actually can't really imagine you working a formal job at all." It wasn't helpful, he knows, but he takes his shirt off, not shying from nudity.

At least, until he looks down and sees the scars on his torso. He hadn't had the full breadth of the gunshots revealed to anyone before, nevermind Till. Pausing, he turns quickly, trying to angle his back so as much of it was able to be used as a canvas as possible, but he does worry the damage is done, so he continues talking:

"I think your own business would be good for you. You don't have to work for someone else, you can be your own boss, and you can do art." He pauses again, "If that is what you were thinking about doing. I'm sure you can do whatever you want, and I can support you." He's trying to calm his heart rate, but he knows some of the bullet scars begin to crawl around on his side.

“That’s the saddest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard in my entire fuckin’ life…” Till tells Ivan’s blurry visage, tears spilling over his water line, his voice rough with them.

Even through his tears, Till sees the way Ivan looks at him with such warmth in his eyes, smiling at him so genuinely, and Till…

Till can’t fucking stand it.

He cries harder, folding himself over Ivan, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, and pressing their heads together. This way, he doesn’t have to see Ivan looking at him. He’s done nothing to deserve being looked at like that.

“You’re so… so stupid…” Till sobs out, shoulders shaking with it. “You s-should regret it… Ivan, you… you d-died…”

Till almost chokes on the last word. With Ivan here, it’s easier to never acknowledge that at all — to push it to the side and only look at it out of the corner of his vision, as if looking at the truth straight on will cause it to claw away at the edges of his sanity.

Ivan’s words cause pain to bloom deep within Till’s heart — a twist of the knife opening up an old wound, spilling warm blood throughout his chest.

“...There was never a time when I wished you weren’t there,” he confesses quietly into the side of Ivan's head, Ivan’s soft hair already damp with his tears. “Even when you were annoyin’. Even when you were stealin’ my stuff and pokin’ at my bruises… The fact that I knew you’d unlock my collar for me… That I wouldn’t be alone in solitary too long without you comin’ t’ find me… Just the fact that you were there… You made everythin' more bearable… But you should regret bein' there...

“Y-you died, Ivan...” He squeezes Ivan tighter, trying to press their chests as close as possible from his awkward position — trying to impress the importance of his words into Ivan’s skin, the way Ivan’s had made their way through Till’s. Till knows it’s selfish — knows Ivan doesn’t like him the same way — that Ivan might not even be capable of liking him the same way... But Ivan’s words make Till feel so devastatingly loved.

If he could, Till would crawl inside Ivan’s heart and surround himself with the feeling. He bets it would be just as warm and red as Ivan’s eyes when he looks at him…

…And yet, it was only yesterday that Ivan had done something that made Till think Ivan truly hated him, and he knows the same thing will happen maybe hours from now — tomorrow at the latest. Even with a few more of his layers peeled away, Ivan is still the same mystery to Till that he’s always been — but for now, selfishly, Till wants to bask in this feeling.

“You died… and th-there’s nothing that’s worth that… It’s the w-worst thing that could've happened t’ me… The worst thing that c-could've happened t' you… I-I regret everthing that leads up to th-that! I w-wish you'd n-n-never been caught at a-all!” Till cries childishly, pouring his selfish feelings into Ivan. He wraps himself tighter around Ivan, cradling him with his legs, like he’s trying to admit his feelings just to Ivan in their own little bubble, protecting him from the greater truth of the world. After all, if Till had his way, it would be him who had died during their round, not Ivan. How terrible he must be, to want to inflict this pain on another, never mind someone he cares about so deeply.

He often contemplates that, keeping a hand on the back of Till's head while he cries. He'd already recognized this anxious behavior, that Till would be upset, but he didn't anticipate Till being upset because of this. His death, sure, but...

It's the worst thing that could've happened t' me.

Ivan knows he was successful, in his selfish final act, but it doesn't sit as well with him as he would have expected. That his death could prompt something like this - that he wanted to be the center of Till's gaze and affection at least once in his life.

(Maybe he was wrong.)

And so his only reaction can be that question. He contemplates it often, that maybe it would have been better for Till, but Till had already told him, no, it wouldn't have, so he tosses it back:

"Would it have been better if we hadn't spent any time together? Do you think Mizi and Sua regret the time they had?" Even if it hurts, even if he knew he was going to lose his and Till's round because he found the idea of a life absent Till unbearable. That Till had so much ahead of him, so much life and talent and drive, that he had to be the one to move forward.

Even if it meant leaving Ivan behind.

He buries both of his hands in Till's hair, relishing the warmth of his tears, of his body. "I turned 24 today." He murmurs, closing his eyes. "And even if I don't ever turn 24 there, I had two birthdays here I wouldn't have." It's funny, that he always feels like he's comforting Till over his own death, but...

In this case, Ivan was the one who caused that pain, that damage. The situation would be the opposite had he let Till throw their match.

"It doesn't sound like...it would have been better for me to be alone for all those 22 years. For me, or for you."

He lifts his gaze from his guitar to the audience piling to get on stage to rip them limb from limb. Even the sight of them doesn't cause the man to falter. Juliyah wonders what this guy's story is, but for now, he's focused on the tempo of the song.

The pre-chorus continues to build up, the lights begin to flicker, and he hears his ally's guitar start to pick up steam. Their audience is clamoring for the stage, so time to bring out the chorus,

"Sending my love from the other side of the apocalypse And I just about snapped, don't look back Every lover's got a little dagger in their hand Love from the other side of the apocalypse And I just about snapped, don't look back Every lover's got a little dagger in their hand!"

Honestly, he never plays anything this upbeat. He's getting into it, his the post-chorus instrumental dazing the enemies as they clambor over themselves. A few people on the ground get a few good hits in.

He has to do his job, too. There's more incoming, and they're grabbing at his guitarist's ankles as well as his own.

But he’s been fighting for too long already, and he’d be too tired to put up a real fight, even if his limbs were free. Under the person's knee, Till's chest heaves with anger and exertion.

Being touched for him was overwhelming even at the best of times, but, deprived of his other senses, every sensation brushing against his skin felt ten times more intense. Every point of contact prickled painfully like pins and needles—the touch against his vulnerable stomach like an electric shock racing through his nerves.

It takes Till a moment, teeth gritted and shaking, to realize every stroke of the finger was an intentional movement. He stops struggling for a moment.

A…N…

Till feels himself go limp before they can even complete the final two letters. Like a switch has been flipped in his brain, immediately the pressure holding him down becomes a comforting weight against him—the finger tracing letters onto his stomach suddenly surprisingly ticklish instead of ‘Too much! Don’ttouchdon’ttouchdon’ttouch!’

I-V-A-N.

He feels the muscles in his abdomen twitch involuntarily at Ivan’s touch, punching a breath out of him that might have been a laugh if he could make a sound.

Then Till’s breath hitches, tears burning in his eyes with nowhere to escape to. He’s furious; he’s scared. He’s embarrassed Ivan is seeing him like this again. He’d hoped that this part of their relationship was over. The being there for each other because they needed each other and not because they wanted each other, but here they are falling into the same old patterns. Till wonders, not for the first time: if everything around them has changed, but these same things keep happening to him… Does he need to change as well?

But more than anything, Till is glad Ivan is here. His chest shakes with soundless sobs of relief and everything else he’s feeling.

Even if Ivan can't find a way to release him from these new restraints, Ivan would never let anything happen to him. Till has no way to protect himself, but he’s safe now with Ivan here.

Moving slowly now and with tentative care, he reaches out hesitantly. Till feels his fingertip brush against fabric, and immediately he latches onto it, clutching Ivan’s sleeve with both hands in a white-knuckled grip.

The gold itself was stuck fast - there didn't seem to be burns around there, so he's not sure how this happened. Probably something magical. He runs his hands around the edges of the gold, finding a distinct lack of give at all.

Around Till's ears, the same, around his mouth, the same thing too.

This was a difficult situation. He's not entirely sure how to handle it, and he doesn't think that it would be good for Till to go without food in this way. But he's also not sure who to talk to about it. What he does know is that leaving Till here wouldn't solve anything.

He presses his lips into a thin line for a moment, exhaling as he grabs Till's hand more firmly, palm up so he can sense a longer word. Holding his breath for a moment, he then writes down the thing he knows won't go well, but also the place he won't bring Till there against his will.

Alien Stage: Ivan

He goes completely still. Unable to tell who this is, Till isn’t sure he wants to be found. There’s no way even Ivan would have been able to find him this fast, what with his busy life and all. Till had been fully expecting to spend the night on cold ground, the hot blood of his rage the only thing keeping him warm.

Whoever it is grabs his hands, and Till lashes out with both fists instinctively, not waiting to see what they’re going to do. He thrashes violently against his chains.

If he could cry, he would. Even if they’re here to help, he doesn’t want a stranger touching him.

While he had suggested they not wrestle anymore when they started their respective growth spurts, because they'd hurt each other, but he's not quite too concerned about that right now. Pouncing on Till when he sees an opening, Ivan presses his knees into Till's thighs, trying to pin him down, pressing his elbow against Till's collarbone.

He had to adjust a bit, but otherwise he used all of his strength to hold Till down. Now there was the matter of telling Till who he was - and he clearly wasn't feeling up to having his hands touched. Till's neck was a no-go, still raw from a recent attack and somewhere Ivan didn't quite want to touch at the moment, even if it would have been the best way to let Till know it was him.

Seeing Till's shirt had ridden up, he presses a finger there I-V-A-N. He repeats it again I-V-A-N. He hops that the fact that the strokes were simple was helpful, and not harmful.

"It's Ivan," he feels a bit pathetic, almost pleading. He's not enjoying fighting right now, and that's upsetting to him.