to me you are black sorrow

Tears that had been welling up at his lashline spill over as Till looks up at Ivan mutely. The only noises in the room are Ivan’s voice and the much quieter sound of Till copying Ivan’s deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth, following Ivan’s pace.

The voices in his head fall silent.

He doesn't dare speak, lest he break the spell, instead getting to work on rubbing ointment on the cleaned wounds. It's not perfect, but they can check on them again tomorrow.

After being sure there's an even coat across all of the wounds, he slowly starts to wrap bandages around Till's neck, sure that it is secure, but not wrapping too tightly.

This is where he hesitates, hands shaking.

He sees Ivan’s mouth move through his vision blurred by tears, but he can’t hear him over the chaos in his head.

‘Be honest with me. You have something to tell me. I could cry with joy right now...’

‘He doesn’t know any better!’ A memory resurfaces of a much smaller Till defending Ivan’s strange behaviors, and in his head, it almost sounds like the child version of himself is arguing against the warped version of Ivan. ‘Nobody ever taught him how to be gentle.’

After a moment, Till nods once tentatively, a jerky movement. He’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to as he bares his vulnerable, tattered neck to Ivan. Trusting. Willing to let him try again.

Gently, so gently, careful around the metal of his tattered brand to not catch it on the fibers of the towel. "I need to use disinfectant now."

He knew this would sting, but he tried to split himself off from imagining the sensation. He's inhaling in his nose, exhaling through his mouth, as slowly as he can. Carefully, like handling an old text with pages so thin you can almost see through them.

Setting aside the bowl, he murmurs, "That's done. Now it's just...ointment and bandages."

He holds up the tube and the bandages, holding them for Till to see if he needs to.

Then another. And another.

In the quiet, Till can just barely hear himself think.

He blinks, and he sees Ivan staring back at him, mirroring the fear and pain that he feels.

Till glances down at the bandages on the floor, sitting innocently among the flecks of his blood, only long enough to decide that’s not what he wants right now.

But he doesn’t know what it is he does want.

It's not innocent anymore when one of them is dead, is it?

It's not fun anymore. He doesn't like this reaction out of Till.

A new towel, nice and warm. He slowly moves to crouch by Till.

A new approach. He can be gentle, can't he? At least he can try.

"I'm sorry." Not a lie, not just a bandage. He's crouched on the heels of his feet, ready to move if he has to. "I didn't consider everything." His voice is as soft and even as he can make it. He's as quiet and gentle with his movements as he had been when sneaking into Till's hospital bed, careful not to disturb him.

He jolts, reacting instinctively as he brings his leg up and smashes his foot into Ivan’s chest.

Falling backwards onto the floor from the force of his kick, Till scrambles backwards until he hits a wall. He shoves himself into a tiny corner of the bathroom, chest still heaving. Bringing his knees to his chest, he tries to make himself as small as possible.

He releases his breath in a sob, tears running down his face and stinging the new cuts on his neck.

Eyes wide, Till stares at Ivan with an expression he’s never worn around the other man—an expression that’s so rarely seen on Till’s face, even when he looks up at his Guardian, who would hurt him so mercilessly.

Till who's looking at him like...

Like...

(I tried to warn him. I tried.)

He slowly backs away himself, back pressing against the door. A cornered, feral, animal, not entirely sure how to act. His heart is racing, his chest hurts, feeling like it's going to burst through his chest.

He doesn't understand, he doesn't understand.

(No, I do.)

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, he takes some of the fallen bandages from the first aid kit, using his foot to push them over toward Till, silently watching him from the doorway. A cat unsure if it should run or not.

Color bleeds from his world—all except for the red of Ivan’s burning eyes.

The image of the Ivan in front of him overlaps nauseatingly with the visage of the man who torments him—the one who taunts him and asks him to say the things he never got to say while stealing his voice from him.

Ivan’s hands on his throat—burning and itching and itching and itching.

Such a short and sweet time, he should have gone down the drain when he could. Ever monstrous, even now, that he thinks of himself first, and how he caused this.

He crouches in front of Till, reaching up and grabbing at Till's hands, pulling them, hard, minding his finger. Placing them on his own throat.

"Stop it."

Till smooths his fingers over Ivan’s shoulder in wordless apology—in gratitude—before shoving him without any real heat behind it, tsking in irritation.

“Not talking about me,” Till rasps. “Talking about you.”

He jolts like Ivan’s question sent ten-thousand volts of electricity to his spine. He might even have been furious if he wasn’t so surprised. So distraught.

How could Ivan even say that to him? How could he even question that? Till’s mind might have been too addled to take in everything that was happening when they sang together, but wasn’t Ivan listening to the lyrics that Till was singing? With Ivan? To Ivan?

“Course it’s important to me,” Till whispers, even quieter than before. “Wrote it with you…”

He stops, the faucet still running, drowning out his thoughts as he stares into the drain. He wishes to crawl into the drain, to preserve this moment, for the rest of his life. But the sounds on that stage feel so far away, and he...

"For...me?" He can't stop staring at the drain, watching the water go down the sink. Exhaling, he shuts the drain off, moving to press the wet cloth into Till's wounds on his neck, maybe rougher than necessary.

"Then,"

"If it's for me..." He wipes away some of the blood, pressing on the wound and pulling his hand back, licking at the fresh blood on his fingers, so reminiscent of their childhood, wiping the wound once more, and pulling out the disinfectant. He presses it into Till's neck, knowing it'll sting.

...But he thinks he’s starting to.

He wants to trust that Ivan doesn’t want to hurt him—that they don’t want to hurt each other—any more than it takes for them to understand each other.

Till grits his teeth in preparation for the pain, determined not to let out a single sound lest Ivan feel he’s to blame when he’s just trying to help. Till did this to himself, and now that the haze of fear and anger has largely faded, he can see how the choices he made while clouded with his emotions have hurt Ivan too.

Insistently, Till pushes Ivan’s bangs back away from his face, not letting him hide. But Ivan has more he can hide behind than just a curtain of black hair. He gently tilts Ivan’s head to make eye contact with him, so intense that it’s painful.

Rolling the words he wants to say around in his mouth, Till tries to find his voice. Maybe it’s not the best time to bring this up again, but Till was never one to let go once he’d sunk his teeth into something. At least now neither of them seems up to screaming at each other anymore.

His voice is trapped somewhere in his throat. His shoulders raise slightly, and then he nods his head, brow furrowed as he tries to find his own words.

"Yes."

He stands up, tugging Till with him, head tilted toward the bathroom so he can start pulling out first aid supplies. He tugs Till along because he's not running away, he's just moving their location. Gesturing for Till to sit on the lid of the toilet, he pulls out the first aid kit, and starts setting things out.

"Music is important to you." It's not a question. Till expresses himself through art, his feelings his emotions. Till learned about Black Sorrow from his interview, but Ivan heard Unknown on the stage. Even if those words weren't for him, even if Cure isn't for him, he still wants to hear the end.

A small object that looks like a large metal clasp is taken out, "For your finger," it's better than what he would normally use, or scrounged up, but he recognized what it was for. Taking Till's injured hand, he puts the object on it, keeping the finger stabilized.

"Is that so? Good for you, being so informed." He states simply, maintaining pace on their little walk. "But what reason do I have to cause harm to anyone? Are we competing? Are you secretly taking me to the stage right now?" As he questions, his pace quickens ever so slightly, moving in closer to Ivan, turning his head to offer piercing eye contact.

"I tried my best to keep it together, but you're really funny."

"In fact, I think maybe your guardian should have booked you on variety shows." He takes a step forward, both heads of Orthus turning to growl. Gently, he places his hands on Luka's shoulders.

"Here's the thing, Luka," he leans forward, his mouth even with Luka's ear, his voice falling to just above a whisper. "You aren't the King of the Stage, here. You aren't anybody." He grasps the man's shoulders more firmly, turning him around, a billboard with Ivan's face glowing in the evening din, announcing his upcoming album and shows. "This is my stage now, the crown has passed to someone else in your absence, Your Majesty"

His fingers delicately move to Luka's throat, finger pressing into the cartilage rings of the other singer's trachea. "You can read our performances, can't you? That's your weapon, right? Well, if you didn't understand me fully, I'll tell you a little secret,"

"My guardians let me read anything I wanted, so, I know where on the throat to press to avoid killing someone. Which means, of course, I know where to really press to kill someone." His fingertips put pressure on slightly, and then release. And he backs away, as though nothing had happened at all. The twin heads of Orthus back to casually sniffing around. He tilts his head, smiling his usual smile.

At the mention of something being purchased for her, she perked up immediately.

"Of course, we'll be sure to get something for your girlfriend, too." It did make him happy, to hear that she was thinking more about her girlfriend than herself. Not that he minded spending the Dust. The girl was strange, and he found himself amused by her.

That, and Ishmael had clearly wanted him to make friends. This was normal, right?

"Ah--well.., if you say so!" She clears her throat, then says, "I'll then say your name comfortably---like I do with Till oppa!" Since he had given her the okay, it was fine.

Wow, she feels like a princess, though, or more like Ivan really is so princely. She hasn't been kissed by the hand before!

"Ah, you're very busy, then, Saetbyeol. That's very impressive - you could be cut out to be an idol yourself, you know, which that kind of work ethic." A shrine maiden, right. He doesn't mention that he's the walking dead at the moment, lest she banish him before his work is done.

But when Ivan holds him there, it means only safety and comfort.

The tension momentarily leaves Till’s body with a shudder… before he surges back, stronger than ever, wrapping his arms under Ivan’s and pulling the other man in close, burying his face in the crook of Ivan’s neck. He hugs Ivan to his chest fiercely, pressing them impossibly closer, as if he can bring Ivan inside his heart through sheer force of will. Ivan’s warmth against his skin. Ivan's pulse in his ears. Ivan's breath in his lungs…

And finally, Till bursts into the sobs that he’s been holding back.

Till holds them together, huddled up in one another like pups thrown into the same cage, whimpering and shaking while they try to find comfort in each other—comfort from a fear of an inevitable doom that is larger than both of them.

He’s making quite a mess of Ivan, smearing him all over with his blood and tears, but Till can’t bring himself to care. Despite the discomfort, Till has maybe never felt more warm or content than he does in this moment, holding Ivan. If Ivan could only feel the cold and hollowness Till suffers when he’s gone, Ivan would never question why Till asked him to stay so selfishly.

It’s hard to tell how much time passes, Till is so wrapped up in the fervent elation of Ivan being his—the exquisite agony of his heart belonging to Ivan—that it feels like a few seconds and a hundred years all at once. Like Till has waited an entire lifetime for just a drop of the ocean he’s currently drowning in.

After what feels like a millennium, Till finally starts to become aware again of himself again—his senses that aren’t all wrapped up in Ivan. The crooked index finger on his right hand, sticking out awkwardly. The open wounds on his neck. Even the growing numbness of his legs under Ivan’s weight—all prickles of pain keeping Till from losing himself in the warmth of Ivan’s embrace.

Sniffling still, pressing his nose against the pulse point in Ivan’s throat, Till doesn’t even bother to lift his head, opting to meekly croak out his infirmity to Ivan alone:

“…think I h-hurt my hand…”

A sudden jolt of anxiety goes through Till’s heart. Ivan was crying. He so rarely saw Ivan cry, and certainly never this much. His Ivan, who bends but never breaks. Till would never be able to forgive himself if he were the reason something inside of Ivan broke.

Till pulls back just enough to see Ivan’s expression, reluctant to be parted at all. He holds Ivan’s face, pushing his hair back with his other hand.

(It's so monstrous, I'm so monstrous.)

He's crying himself, and he can't express himself appropriately, and he can't understand why he's crying. He's grateful for the first time that he doesn't understand, that he can't explain it to Till, because maybe then he can still keep a sliver of his mask on, the one that hides the ugliest parts of him, the parts that he can't change. He's not sure he wants to.

So when Till speaks again, he can't help but smile weakly at it. The familiarity of it among the new. Injured Till looking up at him and only him with his infirmity.

"I'm okay."

His tears frame his smile as he sits up, shaking his bangs back into his face as soon as he can, boyish charm at odds with the red rings about his eyes, his 'injuries' not even comparing to Till's. Wiggling up, he grabs Till's hand, leaning forward, looking at it, and then looking up at Till.

"It's gonna hurt," he says, with that same weak smile, eyebrows raised. "But I can fix it." He can, and he hopes Till understands that, he'd learned a lot about this sort of thing, not only here, but in his life before Anakt.

What’s less funny is how Ivan talks about himself. How he thinks he can predict what Till is going to do, like Till is a character in one of Ivan’s books, and Ivan already knows how the story ends.

Running his thumb along Ivan’s cheek, Till wipes away more of his tears before gently threading his fingers through Ivan’s hair, cupping the back of his head.

But Ivan seems to forget... Till is a dangerous and untamable thing: meant to be leashed and sedated and kept under lock and key.

The slight narrowing of Till’s eyes is all the warning Ivan gets before Till fists his hand harshly into raven hair and yanks back. He wraps his leg around the back of Ivan’s and pulls suddenly, folding Ivan’s knees out from under him and using his own weight to bring him toppling to the ground with Till on top of him, pinning him down.

The hand on the back of Ivan’s head intentionally cushions the blow when he falls, but Till keeps his tight hold on Ivan’s hair even after, forcing his head back and exposing Ivan's throat to him. Till drags his free hand down Ivan’s face to his neck, marking him with blood there as well.

Till bares his teeth against Ivan’s vulnerable throat like he really is going to eat him. Ivan looks so cute like this — under him, his wide dark eyes filled with tears and some indescribable emotion — that Till just might.

Still unable to speak in anything louder than a whisper, Till brings his face just inches from Ivan’s, close enough for their noses to almost touch. He wants to make sure Ivan can hear everything he has to say with perfect clarity.

“Either you don’t know me at all, or that little… stunt of yours really went to your head,” Till growls softly, all brutal fire and warm poison, “If you think you can make me do anything.”

Unlike during their round together, there was little danger of Till being drugged to the teeth here. Ivan was bigger, but he could never bring himself to do anything that would cage Till, maybe unconsciously so. Ivan gave up too easily — where Till was growing stronger every day, and he never gave up so long as there was still fight left in him. And with the one person who sparks that fire right here beside him? With Ivan, Till was a monstrous inferno — burning bright enough to rival the sun.

“I’m not giving you 'free rein'. I’m giving you exactly as much of myself as I want to. I don’t want you to be anywhere else but right next to me — unless it’s safe inside my heart forever. You won’t be able to carve out all of me if I keep making my heart bigger — for you, and for anyone else I want to keep. I can be pretty selfish too, Ivan.”

Till leans further in to whisper, his breath ghosting against Ivan’s lips:

“Try me.”

He pulls away just as suddenly, and brings the broken hand that had settled on Ivan’s neck back up to cup his face. There’s a moment of hesitation and uncertainty in Till’s eyes, seeming shy for the first time in this whole conversation, before he bends down and presses his lips to Ivan’s cheek, kissing away his tears. There’s a light dusting of pink across Till’s nose as he pulls back and looks away, embarrassed.

Ah, it would be...

Instead, he's brought back to reality, pinned to the ground. His first reaction would normally be to grapple with Till, but the issue is that Ivan had only grown more complacent here, back on his idol diet, but Till had gotten bulkier. He's stronger than he was back when he was chained and starved. Ivan wouldn't really have tried to hold Till down, not really, but...

But his thoughts are interrupted by teeth on his throat, and his prey instincts kick in, Till's words and teeth rending a whine from his throat. He closes his eyes, he's still not sure why he's crying, but it doesn't stop. Were Till to wish to drink every tear up, he'd be too full before he could ever finish. Any attempt at talking results in a whimper, and he simply wilts under the kiss on his cheek.

It's not exactly what he wants, but it's enough for now. All he can do is nod, squeezing his eyes shut to try and stem the flow of tears, his blood rushing to his face. He gives up easily, he knows, because ultimately he doesn't want to fight. He just wants attention and affection. He wants to be loved, and this is more than he could of anticipated.

Maybe he was the one who never understood anything at all.

All he can do is nod, keeping his eyes closed as he reaches up and grabs onto Till's shoulders. Trying to steady himself, a ship unmoored. Did he never understand anything at all? He opens his mouth to ask, and instead only a long and low noise akin to an injured beast leaves. A cry. He curls the best he can, pressing his face into Till's shoulder.

Finally, after a while, he's able to whisper:

"Okay."

A deal signed, and he can't help but invoke the image he's read in books, the feeling of someone signing their soul over to the devil. So sure in what they want, so absolute in their choices.

But...

But... Given he's the devil in this situation. He can't help but be happy about it.

And if Till is willing to be damned with him, then he won't be the one to shackle Till away from his choices.

He reaches up, pressing his fingers against a familiar spot on the back of Till's neck, as though releasing the collar from him.

If there is a god, they must not be as cruel as his god. At least to respond with only silence was to leave them with hope, still. Ivan tears that hope from him now, leaving Till with something he doesn’t understand.

But still, Till can’t bring himself to abandon his faith.

Till opens his eyes in raw panic as Ivan pulls away. He grips Ivan’s hands harder, his broken finger screaming in pain. Something in him is crying out desperately, telling him that if he lets Ivan go now, it will only widen the distance between them.

But it’s not fair.

It’s always what Ivan wants. Ivan wants to be near Till, so he follows him around. Ivan wants Till’s pencils, so he steals them. Ivan wants Till’s attention, and so he steals that too. Ivan wants to carve a space for himself in Till’s heart, so he starts hacking away bits of Till to take with him when he goes. Ivan wants Till to live, and now Till must be forced to live and suffer in Ivan’s place.

Till traps a sob behind his teeth, his drenched skin feeling cold and irreparably stained in the air Ivan left behind.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

…

Is it?

Ivan took plenty, but he also gave Till everything. His companionship. His knowledge. His comfort. His life.

He tried to give Till his freedom too, but when Till refused, Ivan still released him from his collar, unasked.

Till never asked Ivan for anything he gave him. He’d never had to. For all their misunderstandings, Till thought that sometimes Ivan knew him better than he knew himself. Ivan talking to Till about the things he'd read — things that he knew Till would like to draw. Sleeping next to him in the garden so that Till wouldn’t miss his provider so much. Sneaking into solitary and sacrificing his own comfort to sit with Till in the lonely dark when he was being punished.

It scares Till. He’s scared he loves Ivan too much. He’s scared he won’t love Ivan enough. Till’s scared of hurting him again.

Ivan is cursing Till with his body and mind and soul, but he’s also tearing himself open for Till; so that Till can see all of Ivan's worst parts, his festering wounds and gory insides.

Ivan thinks that’s all he’ll ever be.

But Till thinks he’s beautiful.

It makes Till want to show Ivan all the worst parts of himself, too.

Grasping Ivan’s hands, Till pulls himself further into Ivan’s orbit like a star being drawn towards a black hole.

“…Okay.” Till whispers, closing the distance between them.

“You want me to care? You want me to never forget you? Easy. Done. I could never forget you since the moment I saw you, anyway. I’ve cared for you every second that I’ve known you, you idiot. That’s not a punishment.” Because Till also wants and wants and wants every part of Ivan.

“If the price of being with you means living in your stead, carrying your memory and your feelings… Then… I don’t have any other choice but to accept... But just know: living without you is the real punishment.”

Till tugs on Ivan’s hands, bringing them up again, but this time, places them on his chest, where his heart is beating strong and fast enough for two.

“If you need more space in my heart, I’ll give it to you. I’ll make my whole heart bigger just for you, so that you can bury yourself inside it. But don’t ever tell me that your emotions are shallow; they’re the heaviest thing I’ve ever had to bear. I feel like I’m being crushed under their weight when you’re not here to help me carry them. Saying that to me… It belittles how much pain I’m in when you’re gone… How much pain you were in.”

Trailing his hands up Ivan’s arms, Till cups his face gently. The tears rolling down Ivan’s cheeks make him look younger. Alive. After all, Till’s ghost doesn’t cry. It reminds Till of the first time he'd seen Ivan from behind the walls of his cage — looking wild and untamed and like he held the whole night sky in his eyes.

“…Cheer up, Ivan…”

Shushing softly, Till brushes Ivan’s tears away with his thumbs, staining Ivan’s cheeks further with his blood. But Till likes it, seeing Ivan marked with his blood, red like Ivan’s burning eyes. Till likes it much, much better than seeing Ivan spitting out his own blood — like he was dying all over again. It reminds Till of the here and now. As much as Till loves every part of Ivan, including the childish and selfish parts, he wants to see Ivan for who he is right now, when Ivan is being more broken and fragile for Till than he ever is for anyone else.

“You’re right. I don’t understand… But I hope you’ll let me. I want to know you better than I do now. Know your whole heart. I don’t forgive you yet… But someday… I want to. I want to see every part of you, no matter how ugly you think it is.” Till whispers, pressing closer. Wants and wants and wants.

..Is that he's not sure he's ever been happier. He doesn't understand why he's crying, because he's happier than he could have imagined. He was expecting to have been left in the living room, all that remains of him, stinking and raw and flayed open.

(Not all. But enough.)

He can barely talk for all he's still crying, mouth gasping for breath as he leans into a touch that he's craved for too long. He doesn't know what to say. He's a siren been pulled from the sea, dying on land. But basking in the light of the sun, he couldn't be happier to perish, as long as it's like this.

No, he can't ever regret letting someone like this live.

Had he killed his God, he would surely have been damned.

"That's wrong," he manages to choke out, placing his hands over Till's now, pressing them into his face until he can feel Till's fingers pressing into his jaw, as though if he could open his mouth wide enough, he could devour Till.

"When I saw you protecting Mizi...I knew that," he closes his eyes, hair falling across his face. "Ah...I knew that, I needed to keep that light all to myself. I'm...I'm so much more selfish than you think. You can't say all of this to me..." A black hole eclipsing the sky, devouring everything in sight, in its vicinity.

He was the first one on the island. Did he bring them all here by force? Did his black hole of a heart eclipse so much that it dragged them all here to be with him in his purgatory? Not hell, but something far worse. A monster's den.

"You'll regret it." He says quietly, "Giving me free reign. I'll burrow too deep. I'll carve out everything else. You'll understand soon."

Still, he can't help but cry.

(A story of such woe...)

"But until then," he finally opens his eyes again, partially obscured by his and Till's hands on his face. "Let me stay by your side."

He smiled fondly. When Robin started performing, he'd spend a long time watching the set before and after her concerts. Soon enough they were both too important to have time to do this. Still, it was a fond memory.

He observes the other staff around him, walking into his changing room and offering a seat to Sunday.

"Live performances like this are neither entirely typical nor atypical. I have experience as an idol, but it's a bit different from live acting." He sorts through his stage costumes, looking back to his new 'friend'.