Chapter Text
On occasion, amidst the arduous tasks of an independent college student, Till thinks he shouldn’t have agreed to room with Ivan.
It isn’t really about Ivan. He’s been a considerate roommate, especially considering the poor first impression he left on Till when the taller, raven-haired boy approached him sometime near the start of the school year. He helps out with the chores, often going out of his way to cover for Till when he’s had a long day. He accompanies Till on grocery trips. And most of all, his cooking is heavenly.
But sometimes, just sometimes, he feels an inexplicable aversion towards the other, a feeling that he shouldn’t be here, with him, rather somewhere else, beyond borders that Till just isn’t meant to reach.
‘We’re just not meant to be’ is what sprouts in his head, a growing bud of unease. It sounds weird, that it does, but when he hears a familiar click at the door, firm, rhythmic footsteps, and a careful, “I’m home” accompanied by a toothy smile, no words could possibly explain the clench in his chest.
It certainly doesn’t help that Ivan is hardly the kind of roommate who could leave his own alone, opting to go on grocery trips together on the basis that Till would get lonely without his presence. He bugs Till at any given opportunity, and if Till didn’t appreciate his company at least a little bit, he would have pushed through with switching roommates ages ago.
Ivan is better looked on from afar, he thinks, approximately the distance of one end of a basketball court to the other. Close enough to see the loosened expression of ever-pretentious Ivan, but far enough that Till doesn’t feel like he’s tiptoeing on a rope straining to carry his weight.
It’s similar and different in every possible way to what he felt for the pink-haired girl of his dreams. Back then he was this far away from her, too, a distance where the glow of her pink strands could still reach him, but there was a gnawing desire to get close. Closer, closer, scrape some of that glow onto himself, too, and maybe one day people would stop looking upon him and his music with gazes of scorn.
And now he’s this far from Ivan, too. Unreachable, in the distance, and Till hates the part of him that feels this is just right. It’s engraved in his bones, some deep, dirty part of him that screams at him to maintain distance, distance.
Don’t get too close.
Ivan has his own glow, too, but it’s different from that of Mizi’s — unlike hers, his is unsettling. Dangerous, even, but with his face, most would happily turn a blind eye to that. He draws people into his orbit and glues their gazes onto himself, but even with his growing fan club across the campus, there is hardly any one out there who could confidently pinpoint when his birthday is.
“Earth to Till.” A snap of fingers between his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
Till blinks. “Hey. Classes ended?”
Ivan flashes a smile, his tiger tooth peeking out from beneath his upper lip. It looks a lot better than the ones he gives his admirers in his opinion, so he accepts it, ignoring the stir in his chest. His hair is a mess — did he run back? — but somehow his clothes remain in the same perfect state they left the house in. He pulls out a chair at the kitchen island and sets down his bag. “Well, yeah. Don’t frown so much, Till. Your skin will turn all wrinkly, like an old man.”
Till shoots him a glare. Ivan falters.
“I’ll cook today. Anything you wanna eat?”
Till hums absentmindedly. “Thanks a lot. Anything’s fine.”
He’s not sure what happens after that, only that the other doesn’t respond nor move for a while. He pays it no mind, not Ivan’s silence, nor his intense gaze drilling holes into the back of his head. It’s nothing new and probably doesn’t mean anything. Ivan’s always been a little weird, after all.
Dinner that night leaves a strange taste in his mouth. It has absolutely nothing to do with Ivan’s cooking — it’s impeccable, as always — only that he feels his skin stand on end and his stomach churn, like a bucket of water circulating again and again inside.
Why am I here? With —
The thought stops dead there, incomplete. Till can’t make sense of it, not really. So he brushes it off, like he always does, because dwelling on it any further won’t do him any good. It’s probably nothing, anyway.
Perhaps.
“What’s with the frown again?” Ivan asks, head tilted to one side in attempt to get a better look at Till’s face. “You’re really starting to resemble an old man, Till.”
“Whatever shall I do with this information.”
“Must be stress, huh.” Ivan nods to himself in mock seriousness. “Is college wearing out good ol’ Till?” Accompanying his remark is a smug grin, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. It prickles his skin in all the wrong ways, and the wave of unease washes over him again. What am I doing here?
The cold sweat sliding down the nape of his neck keeps him conscious. His eyes find Ivan’s, red in black, irises sharp and awake, and Till fears that that deep, dark place he’s hidden away in the depths of his bones, his lungs may not be so well hidden from him after all. If anything, it’s only well hidden from Till himself.
For a split second, a short, fleeting moment, Ivan’s smile drops. It evokes a funny feeling inside — Ivan is never not smiling — crawling from his stomach up his lungs where he screams for oxygen because he can’t breathe — why can’t he breathe — and into his throat and his fingers twitch, reaching up for something, before they halt and drop. He swallows.
“Ivan?”
It goes as soon at it comes, the funny feeling, because Ivan is smiling again, his lips lifting in a familiar, habitual fashion. He’s done this hundreds of times before; his smile is perfect. Second nature, and Till can see that.
He decides he doesn’t like it, but at least he’s smiling again.
“Not stress, then,” he continues thoughtfully. He falls into a comfortable rhythm again, rambling on possibilities while Till, like every other time, sinks. That’s all he knows, to sink, let loose and stop struggling in face of danger because it’s exhausting.
This is the only way he and Ivan can communicate, he knows. Till will rather die than admit what’s on his mind, and Ivan, ever-pretentious Ivan, will sooner hurl himself off a building than express his concern in universal, human language. It’s an exhausting back-and-forth rally, one that Till tells himself to get used to, but somehow ends up contributing to the strange feeling of aversion towards Ivan.
When will this be over, he wonders, as Ivan continues flashing his hesitant, pretentious smile, and Till hums in response. When will I be forgiven.
And it’s all so much, too much, so he retires for the night early that day without touching the work he’s been putting off for days — he can do it tomorrow, he will — and lets sleep lull him under.
It’s quiet.
Unusually quiet, because this time of the night is when voices from all corners intrude his head. Stab into any opening and leave him to bleed till the coming dawn.
“Hey, Till?”
He knows this voice. But it’s different from the one he knows. It’s raspier, rougher; perhaps a little older. And softer, if the voice he knows can even be any gentler than it already is.
“Ivan?”
“That’s me.”
“What is it? I can’t see you.” He feels around, but it’s a blank. His nerves are numb and dead, as if he’s in a vacuum — but he would’ve died if he is.
“It’d be weird if you could. I’m dead, man.”
“Huh?” Dead?
“Yeah. For years now. I used to be older than you, but now you’re waaay older than me. You’re, like, middle-aged now.”
Till stays quiet.
Fingers wrap around his wrist. On instinct, Till jerks away, Ivan’s fingers searing on his skin. “Talk to me, Till.”
“How can you be dead? That doesn’t — that doesn’t make sense.”
He hears a chuckle, just centimetres away from him, because he swears he feels Ivan’s breath against his lips, like he is approaching — and sure enough, within seconds, he appears amidst white fog.
“Doesn’t it?”
“…it doesn’t.”
“I see. It’s okay.” Ivan’s thumb slides over the inside of his wrist. “I’m pretty weird myself too.”
Till’s mouth falls open, but the words are caught in his throat.
“Why’re you always like this?” Till says instead, the words falling out before he can stop them. Later on he will chide himself for this, for saying the wrong things to someone he doesn’t — never — mean to hurt, but how he’s tired and frustrated because they can never, never have a proper conversation.
Ivan tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Like this!” Till gestures to him, Ivan’s fingers firm around his wrist still. “You keep saying things…things that don’t make sense. One moment you’re making fun of me and then you’re nice and then I…” Till looks down. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling.”
Ivan blinks. Then he cracks into a smile, the pretentious one that doesn’t reach his ivory eyes, and Till wants nothing more than to slap his face if that meant he would stop smiling like this. “Is that so?”
“What do you—”
“Maybe it’s because I don’t have that—that thing.” He points to his chest, the left side, where the heart is. “The red organ that beats in here. It’s supposed to make us more like humans, more normal. I don’t have it anymore.” He pulls Till by the wrist and guides it to his chest.
Till frowns, but doesn’t feel the tug on his forehead — it’s numb, too — what is he doing? What’s there to feel if it’s gone—
And just then, the place where his fingers come into contact with Ivan pools open, a ripple forming, like a portal. His fingers slide in effortlessly and freeze—
There’s nothing in there.
He pulls out, Ivan letting go of him in shock, and gasps.
“Why…why is it gone? Did—did they take it from you—”
Till stops short.
They?
Who?
Ivan laughs, and Till almost punches him. But he’s laughing and laughing and he looks like a kid again and—
How could he?
“I gave it to you a long time ago.” Ivan holds his wrist again, letting it rest gently on his palm. “Maybe that’s why.” He closes his eyes and smiles again, and it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen because it clenches his chest tight.
“I’m sorry I’m so weird, Till.”