Work Text:
Ivan slowly opens his eyes.
His eyes feel glassy, dry, and so he blinks some more. He’s exhausted. Something weighs at his limbs, his eyelids.
He rotates his palm down and pushes himself upright. His hands are covered up till almost his knuckles by the long sleeve of a black turtleneck, and they wrinkle under the press of his hand to the ground. He’s also wearing a pair of straight legged long pants, which folds under his careful movement.
At least it’s something he’s used to.
He swipes tiredly, blindly, at his face with the back of his hand.
What's he doing here?
And then flashes of white light behind his closed eyelids: He’s been shot at. He was dying. A wide, expanded stage, its lights glaring. Contact, Desperation.
And then:
Till.
He remembers the horrid press of their mouths and the cold sting of the rain and the hot sting of his own tears. And also–
He doesn’t want to think about it.
Right now, he doesn’t feel any pain. Just an aching hollowness within his ribs. He’s really not sure what that’s about.
At one point, Ivan gets up, relying on a nearby desk, which appears to be much dirtier and more cluttered with things Ivan’s never seen before than the white desks back in the Garden. The lighting is stuttering with strange yellow tones. He clutches at the desk and sweeps the area visually. A bunch of stacked items in the corners, a crumpled blue sheet of paper with white lines all over it, the light source being from the only crudely-made lamp in the room.
What a strange place. Is this his purgatory? His punishment for his shallowness, selfishness?
Before he gets his musings in, there’s a bang of the door, and Ivan manages not to balk as it slams against the wall.
“Navi, what the fuck are you doing in there for so long?”
Ivan stares.
It’s Till. Of course it is.
This Till strides over next to him, careless in his demeanour, a sort of assured ease in his swagger that Ivan’s Till never developed. His eyes are still sharp and clever but they’re softened like Ivan’s never thought of as possible.
And also, Till is directly, unassumingly, undoubtedly, staring right at Ivan.
“What’s up?” Till arches an eyebrow, and the shifting light casts a shadow on him that highlights the eyebags, the delightful curve of an unbruised cheekbone, the smudges of dark kohl at his waterline. His eyes are positively sparking, like a quiet, electric dare. It’s strange and abnormal.
Ivan is breathless and he feels fucking crazy.
So he reacts, much like a cornered cat.
He grabs the closest object on the table, the metal cold on his coarse palms, and throws it right at Till's head.
Till’s eyes widen and he ducks right before the thing hits his face and the item shatters the glass case of the cupboard in its trajectory.
Till’s eyebrows contort, still so expressive, and Ivan sees him falter and say, derisive, “Fuck! What's wrong with you?”
At least this is familiar. Everything about the Till in front of him is a stranger, but this is at least real.
Ivan clutches at the corner of the desk. He must look wild right now.
Till frowns at him. “One of your episodes? It’s alright, Navi.”
With Till’s concerned gaze on him, Ivan feels like he's been thrown into a crowd of one of those insane alien crowds at Luka’s fan meets. He falters, hard, very obviously, and he flickers his gaze down onto the floor. He attempts to screw his facial expression like he’s been taught. His right hand instinctively pulls itself to wrap around the rigid circumference of his left wrist.
“Don’t do that.” Till says passively, and he strides over. Ivan can’t even move away (he’s never wanted to move away from Till ever before in his life) before Till’s touching him, his slender, calloused fingers sliding beneath his fingers and loosening his grip on his wrist. Ivan can't help but screw his face against that.
Till’s voluntary touch trails fire along the path of his contact, prickling at his skin.
Suddenly he’s close to tears again.
“Navi,” Till murmurs, and Ivan tears away from him, jostling the desk beside him. He can’t look at this Till. Not when his abrasive tone gives way to care like that.
“It’s alright.” Till mutters again. There’s an awkward pause .
“Anyway,” Till looks up at the flickering lamp overhead, “If you’re up to it today, we’re gonna have a sing-and-drink party over at the pub. They’ve managed to steal like, two whole crates of alc from their shipments. I don’t know how Luka’s going to explain that away, but– Who knows. That man is magic.” Till slips his hands into his pockets, a strand of his hair falling over his face.
“And,” Till looks at him. It burns. “Anytime you need me. Anytime.”
Till hesitates, then makes to move out of the room.
“You’ve got me,” and he's breathless and watching the back of Till’s figure as he slips away.
He’s not thinking when he strides forward and seizes Till’s forearm.
“Anytime?” he grates out, and Till tilts his head back to look at him.
“Okay.”
They’re in a room again.
It’s definitely Till’s, the walls decorated with drawings, a monochrome of pencil strokes and gliding charcoal. There’s portraits of men and women he’s never seen before. There’s also more than one drawing of him. A red and teal painted guitar rests against the wall, a wooden makeshift piano nearby.
Ivan hesitates before he climbs into the bed. Till does not.
The unlit room makes this affair rather intimate, and Ivan thinks maybe it is purgatory; maybe they want to give him everything he’s wanted and then rip it away forever. But this is surely much more than he’s ever wanted, isn’t it? Because then:
It’s Till less than a half metre away from him. It’s Till’s eyes glinting in the low light of the crack of the shoddy door behind him. It’s Till’s hand pressed unconsciously over his own.
“What is… all this?” Ivan allows, because something about all this is messing with him.
“You need a reminder?” Till laughs, and a memory resurfaces in Ivan’s mind like the red lasers of a gun– Till laughing, his brow lightly furrowed. It was aimed at him.
“Maybe,” because Ivan really doesn’t know.
“You’re here at the human outposts. The Rebellion is so established now– you know how it is. The politics of it I don't really care about, but after Io and I got here it was pretty important for the longevity of the Movement. There were a few older, stolen kids and the escaped adult pet humans and then you were saved like ten years later. And you’ve been here ever since.” Till touches him through the sleeve.
“I thought you were pretty roughed up by how your life was. But you were pretty. I liked you.”
Ivan dares to look in the low light. Till is leaning against the headboard with his pillows propped up, and his eyes are contemplative.
“Was I… good?” Ivan finally says, and he doesn't say: Was I selfish? Was I shallow? Was I unlovable? Because it’s really not about him.
Till looks tired but happy. So happy. “You were hard to crack, Navi. I’m glad we got there. So glad.”
Ivan relaxes slightly on the pillows and Till shifts closer, just slightly, seeking. Ivan dares to reach out. He dares to brush a thumb over Till’s left cheek, a movement he’s memorised. Till shuts his eyes against it.
“You’re not–?” Till murmurs, eyes still shut against Ivan’s movements.
“What are you talking about?” Ivan blinks, slow, soft.
Till’s fingers search for his left wrist again, slipping below his sleeves, and Ivan feels Till push lightly against straight ridges on his wrist that could be anything. It’s probably a manifestation of his brokenness.
“... I guess you haven’t. That’s good. That’s– progress, you know. It’s all you can want.”
“Why are you being so kind?” Ivan asks quietly, because this Till is so foreign. This Till is acting as though he truly likes Ivan. This Till is looking him in the eye and calling him Navi and making him wish for unattainable things akin to whatever Mizi and Sua had.
Till’s eyes flutter open. “Isn’t it just– right?” and Ivan looks at him and so wants– wants–
Wants.
“Idiot. Come to the party later,” says Till quietly, and Ivan can hardly deny him this.
The party is held at this makeshift tent. It’s pretty big, all things considered. The air is thrumming a little bit– men and women he's never seen before ambling around, shoving at each other, smatterings of conversation, stains on countertops, dust motes catching fire in the light. Behind a countertop is a woman, freckled skin slashed with old scares, making some sort of concoction. It’s noisy and random and the opposite of sterile.
Ivan is out of his element.
Skirting the sides of the walls, he slides around slowly, taking it in. When he chances upon another opening, he peeks through.
There’s a painted mural of Mizi. It’s a younger her from a little ways back– all brightness and smiles and spectacles. The brushstrokes are distinct. It’s probably also Till’s work. But Ivan can’t really think of how Till's ever met Mizi if this version of him escaped so early in his life.
“Pretty, isn’t it.” Says a voice. It’s familiar.
Sua is long haired and stands nearby, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes are blank.
“Sua.” He greets, uncertain.
“Mizi seems pretty great. I’m glad her sacrifice gave humankind hope.” Sua says, and the way she pronounces Mizi is detached. Ivan is blindsided.
“And you? What about your hope?” Ivan dares to chance upon her usual rage.
Sua just raises her shoulders slightly in a lazy shrug. Her ink-black locks tumble past her shoulders. Ivan grins at her and when the spark of annoyance digs itself out of her eyes, Ivan wagers that there’s still that surly Sua deep inside, just diminished. Less so.
Sua and Ivan stand side by side, and Ivan brushes past her in favour of his exploration.
More and more of the crowd chances upon the dance floor as the night progresses. At a lucky juncture, the crowd parts momentarily, and Ivan sees a vaguely familiar head of platinum blond waves, curling at the nape of his neck. The man is leaning against the counter, almost flirtatiously, as a broader darker man converses with him. He laughs and pushes his effortless locks back and pushes a blue tinged hand over the man’s own.
It’s definitely him. Ivan’s not familiar, but they've at least met before during the 50th Stage’s pregame promotions. He’s not familiar with what Luka’s doing with that man, either.
The crowd covers the image again.
He’s feeling a little lost, a little out of place. He pulls at his sleeves.
Then:
“Here’s a change of pace– I don’t usually do these. Go waltz with your people.” The singer on the small multi-coloured elevated stage says into her microphone, tossing her cropped brown hair back. Her tanned skin glistens as she leans into the microphone and winks.
She starts to sing, and it’s different. It’s a nostalgic beat, a soft drawl. A language of song Ivan doesn’t recognise.
Je t'aime, je te quitte, je t'aime, je te quitte
Then:
Through the crowd, grey hair, jade eyes. Till hugs a woman who only can be his Io, her hair and eyes a carbon copy, his lips moving soundlessly in the music of the present as he parts from her.
Then:
Till’s gaze shifts onto Ivan, and the world narrows down to this– Till’s eyes are soulful and alluring. He’s donned a sleeveless green top, long fingerless gloves. A metal chain drapes across his sharp collarbones, and Ivan stares a little bit too long at his chest as Till beckons: My eyes are up here.
Ivan looks, and Till approaches closer, ducking through the crowd easily, his eyes glittering with a sort of green eyeshadow on top of the kohl. He’s gorgeous. Till smirks and it’s self assured. His eyes crinkle and the piercings on his ears shine.
Ivan would be pleased just to be allowed to look. He’s always pleased to be allowed to look. The music thrums and Ivan holds it within his incapable hands.
Mais ma meilleure ennemie, c'est toi
Fuis-moi, le pire, c'est toi et moi
They move in tandem, and Till’s dancing with him, small movements, intimate. Ivan stares and stares and he draws his own hand to brush, open-handed, at the base of his own neck. Till’s movements are less practiced and more raw and yet performed with ease.
They circle each other easily, and Ivan forgets about his inadeptness at this sort of dancing, caught in Till’s waves.
“Your pupils are blown,” Till says, a light flush high on his cheekbones.
Ivan feels his tooth snag his lip, the hooked one. It might as well draw blood with the way it sends electricity down his spine.
“I wonder why.”
Till gives him a foreign look. Ivan thinks: heat. “Mhm.”
Mais si tu cherches encore ma voix
Oublie-moi, le pire, c'est toi et moi
Ivan does a little thrust to the side and Till laughs genuinely. Till turns to backface him and looks back at him, his eyes catching more sparks, his cheekbone highlighted at this angle, quirked lips.
They’re really happy. Ivan’s hands twitch. He’s never felt like this before. (It took him an alternative timeline to feel this way.)
Frazzled, he brushes at his dark hair, and Till slides so close, reaching up to tuck his hair back for him, caressing his hand. They’re all up in each other’s space. Till’s hand cupping the back of his head, pushing into his hair. Ivan grasps Till’s forearm. His hands are sweaty. The intensity of it all.
Je t'aime, je te quitte, je t'aime, je te quitte
Till looks up at him. His thumb glides up Ivan’s face.
Je t'aime, je te quitte, je t'aime, je te quitte
His thumb presses against Ivan’s bottom lip. Till’s eyes are half-lidded. Ivan knows he’s flushing, flushing bad. Their breath mingles. Ivan trembles, just a little. Sparks.
“Navi,” Till looks at his lips.
White pain flashes behind Ivan’s eyelids and he jerks and rips away again.
“Sorry,” Ivan mutters, eyes low. Till blinks.
“Do you need a breather?”
Till brings Ivan to the balcony of the alien city of the human outpost, not far from the buzz of the pub.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Ivan says bluntly into the crooked iron rail he’s leaning on, hips slanted.
“What’s going on?” Till drops to his side. Their feet dangle over empty air, several stories high. Ivan should be so afraid. He’s never risked this kind of thing before. He’s never felt this emotion before. He’s never put a label on this kind of feeling.
“Till,” Ivan mutters to the air, away from Till. “What is all this? What am I feeling?”
He’s feeling reckless, yes. He’s feeling like fuck it all.
Till breathes beside him. “... Care?”
“It’s more intense than that.”
“Devotion, then.” Till says it normally, like it makes any sort of sense.
“It’s that and also more than that.”
“... Affection?” Till whispers, and Ivan is struck. He shuts his eyes and feels the night wind on his body, and the weightlessness of his physicality.
“I’ve always found you intriguing.”
“I know,” Till says, his legs swinging slowly beside his. “You never hid it, Ivan.
“Affection is like. The thing I have with Io. But it’s different with you, isn’t it? I don’t really know. None of us know it. But I ‘d like to think we’re chancing closer to it all.”
Ivan looks at Till. He’s glowing.
“I thought you hated me. I thought you didn’t care.”
Till laughs. “I was young. You were young. Shit happens. I’d imagine I would still be like that if I didn't have Io or any of the people here. I can’t imagine any different.”
“You still swear.”
“Of fucking course. Can’t buy your way out of me stopping.”
“You still draw and play and sing.”
“I love doing those things. Why would I stop?”
“You still fluster really easy.”
Till looks at him through his eyelashes, brushings of a blush on his cheeks. “Less so.”
“Yet you don't still hate me.”
Till sighs. Quietly: “I've never hated you, Navi.”
It aches a little bit, Ivan drops his gaze.
“Do you want to–?”
“Ivan?”
“Like–?”
“Oh.” Till smiles. It’s gentle on him. “Oh, you idiot.”
Till pulls closer and Ivan sits up straight. They’re close again.
Till places a splayed hand on the base of Ivan’s neck, gently, anchoring him, another on the back of his waist. Ivan doesn’t know where to put his hands before he slips his fingers through Till’s necklace.
“Breathe,” Till breathes, and he presses forward to push his lips against his in a pale imitation of Round 6.
Ivan balks, then relaxes, and shuts his eyes. Unconsciously, Ivan makes a small sound in his throat, and pushes back. Till’s reprociation dashes memories of it from his mind, leaving it blessedly blank. In a wild sense of desperation, Ivan grasps at Till wrist on his chest and pulls at it, asking for– for–
“Navi,” gasps Till against his lips, and Till shifts his hand up to Ivan’s neck, giving him what he wants, what he needs, and Till goes in for it again.
Till’s fingers are firm at the sides of his neck, a pleasant buzz in Ivan’s head, not cutting off his airflow as they push and pull. Ivan’s hands find Till’s hand on his neck and covers them, reverent, and Till groans, muffled. He realises he's whining himself as they slip down into the floor of the balcony.
“I want to occupy the biggest space in your mind,” Ivan gasps, and moans as his head hits the floor, Till cushioning the back of his head momentarily, Till’s hand is on his neck and Till’s legs are bracketing his hips and the minimal light of the city casts a gorgeous back glow upon Till above him. They’re heaving and shaking and Till swipes at the sweat at his brow, his eyes defined and smudged makeup. He’s ethereal.
“My God,” Till grits, brow furrowed, “My God.”
Ivan trails his hands up Till’s forearms, and Till’s driving his hands under his sweater, and he's trembling, because he’s never wanted to be seen bare like this, but now he needs it so bad, so fucking bad.
They’re fumbling in plain view, pleasure entangling itself into the air. Ivan pierces Till’s lip with his snagged tooth accidentally when Till brushes past his nipple. Till whimpers as Ivan pulls him down roughly to plaster them together and bite at the curve of his shoulder over his clothes.
“Need… Need…” Till mutters, and Ivan doesn’t know what it is, but he's gasping yes, yes, yes.
Till mouths absently at his neck and adjusts Ivan’s legs and Ivan’s eyes are rolling back and–
Mais ma meilleure ennemie, c'est toi
Fuis-moi, le pire, c'est toi et moi
Ivan turns under Till and they’re pushing and pulling and Till sucks two fingers into his mouth and makes a mess–
Till’s touch on his heated skin and their bare skin on bare skin and Ivan sees stars and sends himself to scratch at the ground–
“My God, My God…”
Ivan whimpers and Till gasps and they move together and Ivan loves this, this coming together where they’re gasping each other’s name and Ivan is crying out and arching his back and gripping at Till’s naked hip–
“Gonna… Gonna…” gasped out, and Till grips at him and Ivan grips at the back of Till’s head, brow furrowed, rocking, and Till sobs into his shoulder and it’s over, it’s over.
“Hahhhh…” Ivan breathes, turns back under him, flushed and satisfied. Till collapses on him and buries his head in the crook of Ivan’s shoulder, panting hotly.
Ivan closes his eyes and wishes.
“My God,” Till mumbles quietly against his skin, and against the backdrop of the city below and the faintest thrum of music from the pub, they are made beautiful.