Chapter Text
Many things Till does within the confines of his new life, he does within an attempt to cling to some semblance of normalcy.
With anyone he has ever cared about either missing or dead, he does what he can to bury the grief that comes up in his throat like bile, and try his best to heal up so he can... do something, at least. He's useless lying in bed like this, all day.
It's been a few days since his match against that creepy bastard Luka, and he still can't move much. Thankfully, the pain in his neck has dulled down into manageability, even without the sparse pain medications the rebellion has. He still can't communicate without a notepad. Can't talk. Can't sing. Till is beginning to feel like his entire existence has been reduced into grief.
Having been informed of everything that's gone down since the finals, it's no wonder he's gone catatonic. Perhaps he's finally lost what's left of his sanity - or maybe, this is the afterlife, and this is his brain's last ditch effort to give him some closure. Maybe, he really is dead.
That would explain why he keeps seeing Ivan.
"Were you disappointed?" Till asks, the cool wind of the air conditioning almost refreshing against the gashes on his throat. Ivan doesn't answer, besides that sick, disgusting grin of his. Fuck, he's really hated Till this entire time, hasn't he? The thing that can't be Ivan opens his mouth the tiniest bit, as if he's about to speak, and Till feels dread crawling up his spine.
"... Let's not talk."
Between messy sketches, Ivan's face comes through, his calculating, impenetrable gaze showing through even with the rough pencil strokes. His smile, gone. Till would rather that... wrong expression not be the reminder he has of the man.
Reminder. Because he's dead, and he died... for what, really? Some sick, twisted joke at Till's expense?
What the fuck, honestly?
As the door to his room creaks open, the thing vanishes for the time being. Part of Till wishes he would stay gone, but an even part of him aches at the thought of Ivan really, truly being gone forever. If this prick of a ghost is what Till gets, he will take his fill. It's what he deserves, after all.
"Y'know," Isaac says, "being holed up in your room is hardly a good way to socialise. You might wanna get out and stretch your legs a bit."
Till buries the urge to shoot him a glare.
While the angry, sarcastic spirit has resided within Till for as long as he can remember, he's not sure it's ever actually served him before. Maybe, in this second chance, in this new life, he should strive to at least be pleasant to the people that granted him it.
But before he can control himself, a bit of it slips out.
How exactly am I supposed to socialise?
Till shoves the notepad in Isaac's direction before his conscious brain catches up with him. To his credit, Isaac only huffs out a laugh. More of a snort than anything else, but it's enough for the corners of Till's lips to tick upwards.
"Bring your notepad. I know Dewey in particular would like to have you join us for dinner."
Till's mouth pinches as he mulls. On the one hand, it'd be nice to leave his room in the infirmary for a bit, and get to know Dewey and Isaac beyond just members of the rebellion. On the other, he knows there to be many, many people within the rebellion, and dinner time could easily become an overwhelming affair. He doesn't know how much he wants these people that he respects so much to see him at his current, fragile, worthless state.
Some of this conflict must be present in his face (Till has never been good at hiding his emotions), because Isaac's face softens. Just a touch. But Till can see it.
"Look, man, I just think it'll do you good, and we're worried about you. You don't have to come today, but just... think about it."
With that, Isaac goes to leave the room. It's as he turns that Till inhales, audibly enough for Isaac to hear him, and he turns and smiles. There's no expectation in his smile, no demeaning superiority, just... a simple smile.
Till sighs, claps his hands on his thighs, and tries to get up. His legs are rather wobbly.
Wordlessly, Isaac rushes over to help him find his footing, and once the pinpricks of pain go away, they go have dinner in the hall, with Dewey and some others.
And, wonder of wonders? It wasn't quite so awful.
Till can honestly say that he's seen worse days.
He knows his condition was pretty touch and go for the first day or so, after he was shot, and that manifested in a long, painful recovery. These days, over a month after his rescue, he's doing pretty well for himself. He's started working out, just to get the blood pumping back in his body, and he joins Isaac and Dewey for most of his meals.
The food they served back at the ANAKT garden, with its vast budget and careful consideration, pales in comparison to the food made from the meagre supplies of the rebellion. While the food made by the aliens was technically nutritious, it was just about sustenance - Till was fed what he needed to be fed to be kept alive. The food here, in comparison, is glorious; the freshness of the meats, fruits and vegetables he never knew even existed, and the best of the best - spices. Till has almost cried at his first taste of curry. Isaac had been worried about it causing damage to Till's throat, but Dewey had seen Till's reaction for what it was, and burst into laughter.
Till's mind drags itself back from the memory and into the present as he steps away from the weight rack and rolls his shoulders.
His heartbeat, though faster, remains steady.
Only few things could make his heartbeat spiral out of control, and it will likely never happen again.
Till takes a controlled breath as he gathers himself. No point in daydreaming about the dead.
The thoughts of them are slowly, creepily, becoming less and less painful as time goes on. The wounds around his neck are multiplying, sure, but he finds day to day life to be slightly more bearable. He knows there isn't really much he could have done, in any case.
In his head, Till hums a gentle tune as he walks towards the dining area, turning corner after corner until the now familiar chatter reaches his ears.
Dewey's voice rings out from just before the dining room. Till, a corner away, freezes at his words.
"What do you mean, you and Ivan met?"
Just hearing his name sends a bolt through Till's heart. Then the meaning of Dewey's words registers, and Till can feel his heart stop in its place.
What?
"Ivan? The guy from the ANAKT garden? The dude that fucking died for Till? That Ivan?" Dewey's disbelief rings through. "How did you even meet him? Why not say anything to Till?"
"I didn't realise it was him until I saw the footage from their match," Isaac says. Till, still a corner away, leans against the wall and clenches at his shirt with a shaking fist. "It was years ago, when he was just a kid."
"How?"
"He was from the slums, y'know?" Isaac says, and no, Till didn't know. "I saw him when he was a kid, a few times, just being a kid, y'know? Existing. Barely. Then, a few years later, I saw him again. I guess he was already taken as a human pet at that point, 'cause he looked all polished and shit. I asked him what he was doing there, and he said he had figured a way out, and that he had to go back to get something. That was the last I'd ever seen of him."
"Sheesh," Dewey mutters, "that's rough. So you're telling me he knew the way out and chose to go back? Why the fuck would he do that?"
"... Can you really not think of a reason?"
There's a few seconds of silence, in tune with Till's frantic, pounding heart.
"Oh," Dewey says, "oh shit."
"Yeah."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah."
"Till can never know."
But Till is right there, and his heart is about to pound out of his chest, and he can't fucking breathe, because why? Why had Ivan done that? Why had Ivan come back? For who? For What? For Till?!
Oh.
He had come back for Till. To bring him out. He had known the way out the entire time, and he had tried to take Till with him.
And Till had fucking refused.
Holy shit, Till had refused to come with Ivan, and so, Ivan had relented and come back with him.
The next thought is like a lightning bolt through Till's spine.
Is Ivan's blood on Till's hands?
After all, had they left, had they gone through with it, he and Ivan wound have wound up on the outside. Maybe even taken in by the rebellion. Who knows what could have happened? Certainly not Till - no, not Till. He knows nothing of anything, apparently, and he knows sweet fuck all about his best friend. Holy shit, Ivan was his best friend and Till practically fucking handed him his death sentence. Hot, bitter shame sours his oesophagus at his stupid self assurance, mere minutes ago, that there was nothing he could have done.
He knows exactly what he could have done - he could have gone with Ivan, and then Ivan wouldn't be fucking dead.
By the time Till comes back to himself, Isaac and Dewey are crouched in front of him where he sits, sprawled on the floor and leaning against the wall, still letting out squeaky, rough, choked out hyperventilating breaths, his hands clawing at his throat and chest and his tears and snot streaming down his face.
His fault. All his fault.
He doesn't even have it within him to spare the guilt on their faces.
By the two year mark of Ivan's death, Till feels like a human again.
For the most part.
He eats, sleeps, writes, trains, draws, and participates in the rebellion. He learned to ride a motorbike, can use some sign language, and he even helps free people. He gets shot in the ear for his troubles, though.
It's as he heads back to his bedroom from the infirmary with a stern and loving command to just learn to let go that he finds... it waiting for him. He couldn't possibly call it Ivan. After everything Till has and hasn't done, the real Ivan would want nothing to do with him, let alone haunt him for years.
He sits and converses with it without ever opening his mouth, a weight on his back, on his mind, on his chest.
I'm older than you now.
And it's as he fills the corpse in about the menial changes of the last few years that it hits him, and the tears leak once more.
How could he not have known?
"Are you pitying me right now?" the thing asks. "Is that why you're-"
Then, the strangest thing happens.
For the first time in the years since Till was broken out, since Ivan had died, and since Till had been being visited by him, the thing that cannot be Ivan... reacted to an outside stimuli. His head snaps towards the closed door of Till's room, and he vanishes entirely as it flings open.
It's Dewey at the door, and he looks like his world has just been flipped upside down.
"Till," he says, and his tone alone has Till springing to his feet.
What's going on? he signs.
Dewey's eyebrows merely furrow further.
"I don't even know if I can find the words to explain this. Just come with me."
With that, Dewey turns around and heads down the hall. Till, still barefoot, rushes to follow him, a thousand questions streaming through his mind. Is everyone okay? Is Isaac hurt? What could have happened to wipe any and all traces of humour from even Dewey?
They go down the hall, then the stairs, exiting the residential area entirely and heading past the training grounds, the storage units, the infirmary, and towards the entrance to the rebellion base. There's a commotion the likes of which Till hasn't seen here since he's arrived.
Dewey speeds up, so Till follows suit. The rough and rocky terrain punctures his feet a little bit.
"Isaac!" Dewey snaps, and the man in question turns around, pale as a ghost, his eyes wide. After they snap from Dewey to Till's, he can truly measure the sheer amount of shock radiating from the man.
Without any preamble, Isaac grabs onto Till, leading him through the crowd.
"If this is what I think it is," Isaac says into his ear, "there might be a God after all."
Then they split through the front of the crowd, and the earth falls from Till's feet.
It can't be.
It isn't possible.
The hair is different. Longer, wavy. He's more muscular, too, than Till remembers him being, bulging visibly with his arms crossed like that. There's a scratch on his nose that's in the beginning stages of healing, and his clothes are stained with what looks like segyein blood.
But the look in his eyes is nothing like the cold, despising gaze that haunts Till. It's warm and red and alive.
Till chokes around the word.
It couldn't be, but there he is.
Ivan.
There's a few moments in which they stare at each other, unmoving, mutually surprised, unflinching.
"Till?" Dewey asks, hesitantly, and while it shatters the spell, Till cannot look away. He takes a step back, on shaky legs, and, as he always had done, Ivan follows him.
"Till." Ivan says, with that same smile that carries emotions Till doesn't know how to name.
Instinctively, Till raises his hands, and fires rapid, quickfire signs at Dewey and Isaac.
Yes, it's actually him, he tells them, and they grin and clap his back.
"Well then, isn't that fucking great?!" Dewey calls out. "Dead man walking, right here, in broad daylight! Fuckin' sick, man!"
Till looks over at Ivan again, incredulous at himself for looking away for even a second, because when his eyes lock onto Ivan again, whatever emotion had been on his face is gone. Shuttered off to an extent that Till hadn't seen in years. Ivan stares at Till's hands, and for the life of him, Till cannot tell what the man is thinking.
Could he ever tell, though? Not really.
But this is different.
In the past, when it was just the two of them, Ivan would let some micro-expressions slip. Unsha's training was strict, but Ivan was... is a freak, not some unfeeling robot, so when it was just Ivan and Till in the expanse of the fake garden, Ivan would smile a real smile. Sometimes cocky and smug, sometimes warm with that same unnamed emotion, usually taking glee at Till's misery, but never the smile he gave to the segyein.
The smile he's giving Till now is the most impersonal he's ever gotten, and Till can feel his heart shatter in his rib cage.
Ivan has caught onto the fact that Till cannot speak, and he's disappointed. He must realise that his sacrifice was for nothing. Then again, is it really a sacrifice if he's been alive this entire time?
"Till?" Isaac asks, and it's then that Till realises he's crying. Hurriedly, he wipes away the tears that managed to escape and signs to Isaac, we should send him to the infirmary, and then, after another moment of contemplation, and ask him how the hell he's still alive.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur.
After the crowd fully dissipates, Isaac, Till and Dewey walk Ivan to the infirmary, showing him around as he hums and haws at the rebel base. He's showing the exact balance of respect and awe the place deserves, but the facetiousness churns in Till's guts, because he knows, he knows what Ivan looks like when he's truly in awe. He saw it, for a blinking second, before the guilt took over his mind, the night they tried to escape.
When they reach the infirmary, they ask him to take off his shirt, and Till kind of short circuits.
While it's true that they hadn't seen each other naked since they were very young boys, Till had always understood, through brawls and teases, that Ivan was bigger and stronger than him, but seeing him like this is like a bucket of ice water over his head.
His chest is well defined, muscular, but not obscenely so, and his stomach is flat and smooth, a thin trail of hair leading down to his trouser line. His arms, too, look capable and strong, more so than they did back in the garden. Whatever Ivan has been doing in the last two years, it strengthened him even more than he already was.
Three gunshot scars decorate his back and shoulder, with three matching exit wounds that tear through the stomach and chest. It makes Till want to cry.
"So," Dewey says, "first question - how?"
"I don't know," Ivan smiles politely. "I woke up on the way to the incinerator, and managed to crawl my way out. I'm not sure how or why they let me, but there was no one there to stop me, just some robots. To be fully honest, I thought I was already dead."
"Till felt the same back when he was rescued," Isaac says, nodding towards Till. Till nods, and Ivan looks at him with no glint in his eyes.
"I managed to make my way back to the slums, who the hell knows how, and from there, I got treated. As means to repay the people that took care of me, I kept the segyein away for a while."
Dewey and Isaac nod, in sync as they ever are.
"Second question," Isaac asks. "Why come here, then?"
Ivan's eyes pass over to Till for the briefest of moments.
"I just wanted to see what all the fuss is about."
"And now that you've done that?"
Ivan smiles that picturesque smile.
"Well, I'd like to join you."
Dewey and Isaac's eyes lock onto Till's in question, and there's only ever one answer he could give to that.
They look back at Ivan, and Dewey raises his hand for a high five. Ivan looks at it in mild confusion, the first emotion Till's seen break through the mask.
"Oh, right. I forgot. Isaac?"
Isaac and Dewey high five, then Dewey extends his hand, once more, towards Ivan.
"So I just slap it?" Ivan asks, and Dewey snorts.
"Yeah."
Ivan does.
"Fuck, man," Dewey breathes, cradling his hand and grinning. "No wonder Till told us you used to beat the shit out of him - that's some serious strength you've got in your hands."
Embarrassingly, Till can feel himself blush, and he frantically signs IT WASN'T THAT ONE SIDED while Isaac snorts out a laugh.
"I wasn't going that hard," Ivan says.
Dewey chokes on a laugh.
"Yeah, man, I can already tell you're going to fit right in."
He claps Ivan on the shoulder and Till can just about see him flinch at the contact. Hm. Strange. What is that about?
Till watches, like a shadow, as Ivan, Dewey and Isaac talk, and Dewey was right, Ivan does fit in. He blends in seamlessly, in fact. They talk about setting him up in a room next to Till's, and he doesn't even have it within himself to complain, because Ivan's face tightens when he stretches to put his shirt back on in a way that poorly hides the fact that he's in pain.
But pain from what?
A few weeks pass.
Ivan trains to use the special guns that the rebellion has, and gains access to the training grounds at large, where he and Till often pass each other. When they train at the same time, Ivan's face is tight in a way that suggests that something is bothering him, but whenever someone goes up to ask him, he dismisses it. Conversation between the two of them is polite and minimal when Till brings his notepad, and non-existent when he doesn't. There's something in Ivan that feels extinguished, and Till doesn't want to delve too deeply into that, for fear of what he might find, so he just... doesn't.
Ivan is, not at all surprisingly, a terrible cook, and is excused from kitchen duties thereafter. Till is also pretty bad, so the two of them both sit it out.
While Till has his jobs in the rebellion, and they vary from fighting to teaching the rescues how to play guitar and draw, Ivan still doesn't do much. He's not yet ready to go on organised missions, so when Till sees him and he's not training for one thing or another, he's just sort of... floating aimlessly around.
At the very least, his ghost had it within him to torment Till more directly.
Passively, Till realises that he had gotten so used to Ivan sticking to him like a shadow, that now that he's not, it feels foreign. Even though his best friend is back, he's not really, and Till is lonelier than he's ever been.
His bitter musings take him to the dining hall early.
He's not the first one there.
"Look, man, there's gotta be something you like doing." Though Till isn't within viewpoint, he knows this to be Isaac.
"I never had the ability to have hobbies," comes Ivan's light-hearted reply. "I know how to sing and write songs, but even despite the catharsis, I never got the level of enjoyment out of it that Till did. I know he still plays the guitar. I can hear it through the walls of our room."
"Does that bother you?"
A few seconds of silence pass.
"It just... isn't something I expected."
"Do you want him to stop?"
"No."
Isaac sighs. "Look, I know the relationship you have with Till is all sorts of weird, but you two need to sort your shit out. It's burdensome to both of you. And you, Ivan... you need to find a reason to live, man. One that isn't... you know."
How ridiculous, Till thinks. Ivan has plenty to live for. Wait a minute, you know what, exactly?
"Like what?" Ivan asks.
Isaac mutters something that goes unheard by Till, but Ivan laughs bitterly.
"I don't think I can do that."
"Then you've gotta find something else," Isaac says, and changes the subject. They talk about inconsequential things, and Till waits a few beats before making his presence known. He's schooled his face into light indifference, and the display seems to have worked.
Dinner passes as smoothly as possible for someone as lost in his own mind as Till is.
For the second time in his life, Till's life has been jarringly, drastically shifted, and once more, he is left foundering while everyone else seems to be getting by fine. Ivan carried through their underwhelming reunion as though nothing has happened, and Isaac and Dewey have given Till a wide berth to re-evaluate everything that his life has come to. Some days, it feels as though he almost has himself back in control, but for some reason, the distance between himself and Ivan has him questioning everything.
After all, this was everything he had wanted when they were younger. For Ivan to just stop tormenting him, for even a day, but now? Now, Till would do anything to have that taunting back. That cruel smile, full of mirth. Because now, all he gets is that same, cool, polite, impenetrable gaze that everyone else does.
And, well, Till gets it. He couldn't sing anymore. One of his only assets has been taken away from him, and replaced with floundering hands and a notepad. What sort of exchange is that? Ivan nearly died, dragged his half dead body to safety, and almost committed the ultimate sacrifice... for nothing.
So this is his new normal. Nothing feels normal about it.
Late at night, when Till tries to calm his breathing, he thinks about what he could do to try and regain some control of his life. Logically, he knows control is an illusion, but there has to be a semblance of it, because nothing makes sense anymore.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" Dewey asks, and breaks the spell.
Till blinks, and he sees that him, Isaac and Ivan are all staring at him.
A decision is made in the drop of a penny while Ivan collects their empty food trays and rises from where he's seated to clear them away.
I'm going to try to find Mizi.
Isaac repeats what Till said, incredulously.
Ivan's back tensing is the only sign Till has that he's heard him. Then, unaffected and collected, he walks away.
"Are you sure?" Dewey asks, most traces of humour gone from his face.
Yes. I don't have a crush on her or anything anymore, but it feels like the right thing to do.
Isaac and Dewey engage in another eye-contact conversation.
"If you insist, then. Be our guest."
The three of them get up and go to their rooms. It's the last Till sees of Ivan for three weeks.
He can sense that the looks Isaac and Dewey give him are full of pity, and he hates it.
Hates a lot of things, actually.
Hates how hard Mizi is to track down, despite him trying for months now. Hates how many pink haired people there are in the world. Hates how she doesn't really haunt him the way Ivan does, even though she played an equal part in ensuring his life remains intact. Hates how he's still weaker than Ivan, months after Ivan's joined the rebellion.
Hates how he gets sent on more missions than Till, now, because Ivan has practically disappeared from his life entirely, once more. It's unfair, really, how Till is so averse to his own heart that he has no idea what to do with these roiling emotions, or what they even are. And if he's averse to his own heart, then that pales in comparison to Ivan's. When Ivan had joined the rebellion, Till had, subconsciously, bared a fragment of hope that they would be able to stick things out together. That Till had his little shrapnel of normalcy, so that he could bear his new life with someone who knew him. Actually knew him.
Clearly, Ivan doesn't share that sentiment.
In the few times that Ivan had seen him since he's announced his new mission to find Mizi, Ivan's glanced at him with a level of disinterest that borders on indifference. Till has found himself clinging to Isaac and Dewey, who clearly know something he doesn't, but they refuse to budge about it. It clenches at Till's throat, how despite knowing him for a fraction of the time Till had, they seem to have a much better read of him than Till does.
How much does Ivan actually despise him? Did he ever really know Ivan the way he thought he did?
It all comes crashing down on him in an entirely predictable manner.
He's halfway through choking down his dinner, mindlessly recounting another failed attempt at tracking Mizi down, when someone he's spoken to maybe twice joins in on the conversation. He doesn't actually know who this person really is, just that his job is in the infrastructure of the rebellion base.
"Man, you are such a Debby Downer," he says, almost like it's a joke, and claps Till so hard on the shoulder the chair he sits on rattles. The man smiles, wide and wrong. "You're so stuck in your own head, you've barely even noticed how far the rebellion has come over the last few years. You've even helped with that!"
"Dwight, leave Till alone." There's no amusement in Dewey's tone.
The man, Dwight, is not at all hindered by the clear dismissal, and turns Till in his chair forcefully, so they're face to face.
"Cheer up, man, you've just gotta fucking cheer up!" Dwight bellows, his hands on Till's shoulders, his grin still stupidly present.
But it's those words that bring Till back to when they were kids. When the anemone had been crushed, and Till had cradled it in his tiny hands, chanting cheer up! cheer up! like anything could be done. Like the flower wasn't dead, if it was even alive to begin with. Like Mizi could be found. Like Ivan could have ever come back to him. Like Till, now, is the one that needs to be resurrected. And maybe.. he does need to be resurrected, because all he's doing is clinging onto something that isn't there anymore. Maybe, he is the ghost - after all, he's now the one floating aimlessly through the corridors of the dormitories, looking for anything that remains of Ivan. How even though they share a wall, there's no trace of him anymore in Till's life.
Till can't breathe.
Vaguely, he's aware now that he's sitting on the floor, hyperventilating once again, and that there's a lot of faces staring at him, but he can't even focus on trying to save face anymore.
He's a wreck, he's a total fucking wreck, and it's no wonder Ivan doesn't want anything to do with him anymore.
So many voices are calling his name and asking him things and he just can't do this anymore.
Cheer up!
Cheer up!
Cheer up!
"Till!"
It's Ivan's voice crying out that stands out amongst everything else, and the commotion that comes from the entrance of the dining room brings Till a bit more into reality. He looks up just in time to see Ivan shoving his way through the crowd that's circled around him, and then, here he is, on his knees between Dewey and Isaac, with a look in his eyes that sparks just a little bit more than the indifference he's been given since they reunited.
Slowly, Ivan's hand reaches out to grasp Till's shoulder, the first bit of physical contact they've shared since Ivan wrapped his hands around his throat, and it burns.
Till gasps, deep and loud, and Ivan's hand retracts, quick as lightning.
Before he can even take note of what he's doing, Till reaches out and wraps his hand around Ivan's wrist, and his fingers clench against his pulse point, and there it is. He can feel it. That erratic, fast pounding of his heart as he stares at Till, who stares at their hands, and doesn't know what to think anymore.
"I think I should walk him to his dorm," Ivan says.
"I'll do it," Isaac says.
"No." There's no room for debate in Ivan's tone.
A few rounds of eye contact between Dewey, Isaac and Ivan are exchanged, before Ivan loops an arm beneath Till's armpits and helps him stand. Slowly, carefully, and so unlike the detachedness that he had been displaying up until this embarrassing act Till has just put on.
Is this pity?
They stumble towards the dormitories and up the stairs, by which point Till has regained his breath and shame has settled deep within him.
It's when they reach the door to Till's room and the contact has to end that Till panics, just a bit.
As Ivan's arm retracts, Till grabs him again, and pinches his fingers together, as if to say wait a second.
He opens the door to his room and Ivan follows him inside.
The only thing telling this room apart from the others is Till's sketches, spread all over his desk, and Ivan kindly stays by the door, even if his eyes latch onto the drawings from half a room away. Eventually, Till finds his notepad, and brings himself to face Ivan, even if he isn't looking at him as he writes. He only gets through half a word when Ivan's hands close on top of his, sending warmth trickling up his arms.
"You can talk to me," Ivan says, then blanches. The break in character is almost relaxing to Till, and he quirks a brow.
"I mean..." Ivan says, then inhales deeply. He releases Till's hand, then carefully pries the notepad and pen from his grip, setting them down on Till's bed. He then spreads Till's hands open, palm up to the skies (or, well, Till's bedroom ceiling), and presses his thumb to the centre of Till's palm.
"Talk."
You know sign?
Ivan smiles. It's still the wrong smile.
"I learned a bit. I'm no good at signing myself, but I know how to read it pretty well. Now, what is it that you wanted to say so badly?"
Till looks down at his hands as he shakily signs I'm sorry.
Ivan's lips are still curled in a smile when Till dares to look up.
"What are you sorry for?" he asks.
Till gulps. I caused a scene. It was pathetic.
Ivan raises a brow.
"You weren't pathetic, Till. You never are."
But I caused a massive scene.
"Like you have never done? What was that even about, anyway?"
Here, Till is stumped. He can't exactly tell Ivan the reason he was feeling so out of whack is because of him. No, he'd never hear the end of it. Or would he? Would this just push Ivan away further? But, then again, Ivan is here right now. All it takes is just a bit of courage...
I heard you and Isaac talking once, he signs, and he said you need to find a reason to live.
Ivan's mask shifts, but his facial expression doesn't change enough for Till to be able to figure out what it actually means.
Is it true? he asks with shaking hands, do you not have anything to live for?
Ivan laughs, and it's short, bitter, and sad.
"I do. It's just not the kind of thing I should base my life on. At least, that's what Isaac and Dewey say."
What is it?
Ivan gives him a look, like he's stupid for not knowing the answer.
Till can feel his hackles rising, but he's so tired from his pathetic outburst that he doesn't do much more than a huff and a frown. Ivan's face relaxes somewhat, knowing his secret is safe, once more.
I don't understand you, Till thinks, and it's not until Ivan's lips curl up that he realises he's signed it, too.
"I'm not that complicated," he says. "Do you even want to understand me?"
No, he signs, and Ivan huffs out a laugh.
But it's wrong, it's all wrong, because for the entire time they've known each other, all Till has wanted is to understand what the flying fuck Ivan wants from him. The tormenting, the beating, the smirks, and the gentle touches. It's enthralling and confusing, and Till just wants a clear answer for once in his life.
You threw the match when we were competing.
"Yes," Ivan says, not looking him in the eye.
Why?
Ivan looks up at him, pupils red, like a scientist staring at a lab rat. Till, all at once, feels small.
"Do you really not know?"
Till gulps, and his hands shake around the next few signs.
Did you want to die?
Ivan's eyes shut and he exhales through his nose.
"I think this is enough talking for one night, Till." Ivan says, and this clear dismissal stings.
It's as Ivan leaves the room that Till's eyes water over.
Useless, useless, useless, his brain sings at him.
Time passes like molasses in this state, lying on the floor of his room and staring at the ceiling, wondering how he's fallen this far. There's something fresh about the wound of this dismissal, and a part of Till is stirred into action.
Tomorrow, he thinks to himself, I'm going to talk to him, and get some real answers.
Sleep is uneasy and fitful.
A mission.
The two of them are on a mission together.
Wonderful.
From what Isaac told them, it sounds simple enough as a premise - there's a rumour of a unit, just south of the ANAKT garden, where kids are being kept. Find it, gather information and size it up, get back to the base.
Ivan is behind him on the motorbike, and the feel of his hands around Till's waist is welcome in a way Till does not have the time to analyse.
They disembark just before the bike is within hearing range of the segyein, and walk quietly through the field, Ivan before Till. He walks with sure steps, his back tense, his shoulders wide, and Till only has a second or so to ponder how Ivan is so sure about where he's going before it hits him. The familiarity of the field. The assuredness of Ivan's footfalls.
He's been here before. In fact, they both have.
A knot rises in Till's throat.
Once this mission is over, he and I are going to have a talk.
Steadfast, they creep towards the door to the building, unassuming and white. Till expertly picks at the lock, while Ivan looks at him with the same impenetrable gaze. Till ignores it, and within a minute, they're in.
Till turns to look at Ivan.
It would be better if we split up, he signs, so we can cover more ground quicker.
Ivan nods, and so they go.
An indiscriminate amount of time passes this way, with Till wandering through the halls of this maze of a building, barely evading the attention of a robot here and there, but alas, no dice. He cannot see a single thing that would lead to the fact that humans are being kept here.
After checking every room in the building he could find, Till makes his way down, footfall as light as he can make it, and then he hears it.
The firing of a gun.
Fuck.
Abandoning any and all pretences of quiet, Till rushes towards the noise, and finds himself behind a wall of robots, all facing, most likely, Ivan. Before his brain even catches up with him, he takes out his gun and fires, almost indiscriminately, his only thought being of Ivan, and his safety.
I just got him back. I cannot lose him again. I won't make it.
A ray of hope - the wall of robots begins to break, and then he sees it. Sees him.
Ivan looks absolutely terrified.
He has the kind of terror in his eyes that Till has never, in his entire life, seen on anyone. The terror that brings one to their knees. A look so anguishing, so disquieting, that any notion Till has had of Ivan is shattered in an instant.
Ivan is not all-encompassingly confident. He's not staring any challenge down with a smirk and a cocky attitude. He's just a man, and he's... scared. He's terrified of hurting, of dying. Till has his answer now - Ivan didn't at all want to die during their round, and Till can see it in his eyes. Ivan is scared of pain and of dying, and yet, he faced that all. For Till.
And Till loves him.
The weight of the admission, private and internal though it may be, could have been enough to knock him off his feet, but he needs to keep fighting, because Ivan is bleeding and firing and terrified and if Till really does love him, then he needs to do something about it, or he will lose Ivan for a second time.
Round after round of shots fired, and Till eventually runs out of ammo, so he just... tears at whatever he can find. Punching into plating, tearing robots apart, until it's just the two of them, panting, staring at each other in a sea of robot parts and grease.
Ivan's eyes glaze over, and he falls.
Till falls with him.