Chapter Text
“Theo?”
Blue eyes emerge from beneath a car; they roll out from under the vehicle upon hearing their name. “What’s up?”
The noon is already approaching, and all Till craves now is sleep despite the uncomfortable thought of having to close his eyes first during the summer heat, inside his room with a tiny fan. Slumber could only find him due to excessive exhaustion, otherwise seeing him toss and turn, often already sweating despite the priorly taken shower.
As for the past nights straight, after Till had used his productivity on matters more beneficial to their base, his free time was devoted solely to the practice. The guitar played a tune under his fingers, one he had already figured out and memorized, his voice bouncing off the four walls he had coped himself within. Ivan’s eyes the only spectator, gazing from the opposite wall. (V shouldn’t be mentioned. The direction his mysterious stare chooses on less than a dozen pages, haphazardly plastered among the blacks and reds, is not to be spoken of.)
Old habits die hard. The spell that music casts on Till can still transmigrate him to a different reality where time stops, and physiological needs fall dormant. If not for the dryness of his throat, Till wouldn’t think of drinking water for the sole purpose of hydrating — rather, to mitigate the potential issue that could arise from the prolonged strain. Two years of using his voice, of healing. Is it already enough? Is the exertion of his vocal cords a natural occurrence after singing in a key that requires higher notes, or is he still restrained by invisible hands?
“Question.” Till pockets his hands before they start fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “Have I woken you up recently?”
No one but V knows about Till’s gradual return to the world of music. At first, it felt pointless to share it— what if it got him nowhere? Till would rather keep to himself. Failure, then, would only gaze at him in the mirror.
“I don’t know how loud you were, but no,” Theo replies, and upon Till’s instant sigh of relief, raises their eyebrows. “Were you that loud?”
“I don’t know? It’s just…” Till trails off, considering the wording that wouldn’t give anything away. He looks at his boots in thought before settling for, “It was a prolonged noise.”
Theo stares at him, wide-eyed, the silence drawn out. It’s unnerving. “What?” Till quickly asks, stress already prickling his skin. Did he say something wrong? Or obvious? Or—
“Nothing, nothing,” Theo recovers and slides back under the broken car. “Slept like a baby, don’t worry.”
“...Really?” Till inquires, still confused. They couldn’t possibly be trying to cover for him now, right?
A thumbs up. “Really!”
Till hums. Maybe he exaggerated Theo’s reaction from nerves that seized him the closer the idea of readiness crystallized within him.
Practice nights continue to fill Till’s free time. With Theo’s confirmation, he allows his voice to rise in power until the familiar buzz of excitement rattles his core. When it happens for the first time, Till carefully places the guitar down; emotional tears well in his eyes then, and they fall to the rhythm of his quickened heartbeat.
I can still do it, Ivan, he thinks, hands clenched around the edges of the desk, blurry vision trained on the drawing of smiling Ivan, lips quirked up in uneven genuineness. Till smiles back, eyes softened. You better listen to me when I sing in front of everyone, from… from wherever you are now.
One night, a realization dawns on him. He’s stalling while trying to grasp perfection— on the surface. Apprehension holds him back, horrid thoughts of failing to get his voice out in front of everyone postponing the night he walks out of his room with the guitar for the first time since it landed under his door.
Doubt sinks its claws in Till’s flesh, unwilling to let go. It takes one aimed kick at his desk to release some of this frustration. The well-known, tested method, dating back to the days when he vented on the frail furniture, beaten down by time and his acts of chagrin. The disturbance of its messy surface sends a few items to the floor — Till only manages to steady the stack of notes before they completely lean over the edge. Aggravated, he ducks to collect two old, partly crumpled sticky notes that lost their glueing value long ago, a stray bolt and a small pair of scissors he recently lost but didn’t look for. There was nothing to cut recently, not even his hair.
The last is the notebook Till quickly recognizes. Dulled in color and bent at one of the edges, splattered on the floor inside down. Till carefully seizes it in his hands despite the urgency to grasp it tightly and smooth out the creases. The final notebook Till never finished. The notebook where…
“You could just sing, then.”
Words fill Till’s vision; the writing is less than appealing for an eye, sharp and careless lines sewn together. They are just as blunt as the day he read them for the first time.
“Unbelievable,” Till mutters, tracing the graphite lines in a feather touch with his finger so it doesn’t smudge. There’s no one to receive his soft smile but the sole page in the notebook.
There are other words Till is unaware of, staring, even when he isn’t looking. Always there when teal eyes catch sight of them. “Whenever you’re ready,” it says on the torn page he put on the wall among the mosaic the morning it was written.
The next time Till sits with V under the desert willow, he is a pathetic bundle of nerves. He may not be adept at keeping his emotions under a secretive belt, yet the obviousness of his state couldn’t be more palpable. V gave him at least a singular one-over, and how many did Till miss?
The snap of a closing book startles Till later on. He watches as V pockets it inside the jacket, and then, in horror, sees the man get up and turn to him. About to bid his goodbye.
“Wait!” Till surges to his feet. The outburst leaves him embarrassed before his upcoming words have a chance to accomplish that. Shades of pink crawl up his face.
Still, it’s now or never. V is the one Till most wants to see during his performance.
“I know it’s not your thing,” Till begins tentatively. His words struggle to form. “But… would you come to the bar at midnight tomorrow? I-I will sing.”
Voicing his plans is nerve-racking; he is no longer the lone holder of this secret. It carries the obligation, the finality. There’s a desire to surprise his family after everything they’ve done for him, gifting him enough time to heal the deepest of wounds. A whole year to even stand on his two legs and try pushing forward with the stalking presence on his heels.
Through communicating with notebooks and his own voice, friends always supported him. Till decided to surprise them all in return.
“It might have been insignificant to you, but your words and the guitar let me push through.” Till looks away, severing what had to be eye contact. Feelings have never been his strongest forte; avoiding them has already cost him everything. “That’s why it would mean a lot if you were there. If you’re not busy with all the secretive crap you do out there, that is.”
The last sentence is quickly added to lessen the emotional vulnerability— no, to cushion the blow.
The blow to his own heart.
It crawls to the front of Till’s mind — the upcoming rejection, the sinking feeling that V will undoubtedly decline. The bar is a place for everyone to unwind. Evenings and nights see rebels walking in and tumbling out, having won or miserably lost card games, alcohol prominent in blood in varying amounts. Four walls with flaking plaster, an old pair of metal doors that some lean against to cool off, a rusty roof. All the parts that form what Till has learned to appreciate despite his reluctant participation more often than not, never too fond of the loud noises and unending chaos. It was still a spot where he could see his friends let loose, happy.
The desert willow used to be the only spot for V and Till. With enough time, the latter has found the sniper all over the place, as if he decided to linger afloat for searching eyes to see, invisible to those who didn’t seek. Till’s room must have been the line V never intended to cross— where does the bar lie in the whole picture? What are the chances of him willingly joining what he is not a part of?
A part of the base, but not a part of them. That’s how it was supposed to be.
Not for Till, though; V is already an essential factor of his everyday life. The fear of rejection seizes him, and Till knows he won’t bear seeing those words displayed in a response without losing all the flaky confidence he’s been gathering for this day.
V reaches into the inside of his jacket. A common sight before the man usually takes out the notebook. Till jumps him to it, rushing out, “Just think about it, okay?”
All you had to do was nod. But I know that you’re kind, so you wouldn’t shake your head after what I said. You’d write the reason for your refusal, ever so vague.
“I actually need to practice more, so I have to go,” Till follows, eyes cast to the side. His body is always a traitor to his emotions — an early escape is the only option. “See you!”
With that, Till turns on his heels and bolts in the direction of the living quarters, carrying a baggage of mixed feelings with each step. A sense of relief to have told V, a sign that he cannot opt out of it anymore. Then, shame for caring so much, more than about the presence of his friends, his family.
But V is already his family, too. His friend. His…
Selfishness is a term that pops in his mind sickeningly often. Till isn’t able to face it right now, already tormented by fear of what tomorrow will bring.
The next day leaves him unnerved. Till uses the old trick of overexerting himself, then downing a cup of brewed herbs too quickly; the lack of patience causes the moderately hot liquid to warm up his body, adding to the discomfort summer habitually brings. September is already fast approaching, promising a gradual drop in temperatures — the smallest of mercies.
During afternoon hours, after Till tossed and turned around for the countless time in hopes of falling back asleep, he finally finds his efforts pointless. Despite the placement of his room, the only form of practice he can afford is instrumental with the amp turned off so no one is alerted. Is there a point, then?
A cold shower soothes his clammy body, yet the feeling akin to burning from within lingers — inflamed by nerves. Despite the sun slowly traveling toward the horizon, its rays lick Till’s skin in heated frenzy. In knee-long, baggy pants and a loose tank top that is one size larger, as the majority of his clothes are, Till still wants to jump out of his own body. Maybe then, the anxiety wouldn’t try to corner him, bring hands to his throat, sink short yet sharp nails between the scars to regulate himself. To scratch the feeling away.
V is nowhere to be found. Till doesn’t want to think about how much this fact is affecting his state, irrational thoughts already suggesting his friend’s disappearance for another unknown period of time. It takes Dewey’s bemoaning the fact that he worked too long with an empty stomach for Till to realize the time of day. If he’s in the base, he may be sleeping, Till thinks consolingly, letting Dewey drag him to the dining hall with the bulky arm around his shoulders and a storm of words Till doesn’t try listening to. Get it together, he repeats, hoping the phrase will do the trick before every next try. Get it together.
In the late evening, Till joins people at the bar; with a bottle of beer in his hand, the other occupied by cards, he eliminates most of the fidgeting attempts. It doesn’t stop his leg from bouncing under the table so hard the furniture starts vibrating at one point, drawing everyone’s attention. Your hand can’t be that bad, someone jokes, nodding toward the cards Till manages not to bend within his iron grip. Fingers wipe the droplets that form on the ice-cold bottle in the meantime. Till is known for falling into competition and getting too invested in the game; thus, he plays along with this interpretation, keeping the true reason for himself to fret over.
After the second bottle, the alcohol moderately loosens his tensed muscles. Till doesn’t intend to get wasted, but the promise of unwinding before the hour strikes midnight was tempting when he was offered the first beer, sparing him from going straight for it himself and drawing a desperate picture.
With the excuse of grabbing a jacket from his room while the temperature hasn’t cooled down too much yet, Till escapes the bar. However, his footsteps first carry him in different directions — first, the desert willow, its shape lone in the distance. Then, Till stops by the garden to water the plants that need it, their presence the only company for his habitual task. The silence of the shooting range, void of sharp cracks and thuds that bounce off the walls during the day. The darkness in the vehicle hangar lacking quiet, echoing footsteps across the perimeter. No additional shadows.
And then, the slow walk through the living quarters. The guitar he carefully picks up and cradles with a deep breath. As Till closes the door, his regular jacket stays behind, draped over the chair.
The walk back should have been quick, yet his feet drag with each step, risking being seen with the instrument he cannot magically hide from prying eyes. Only its dark colors promise the cover under the night. It lasts until Till approaches the back of the bar before anyone spots him from the front.
V is nowhere to be seen.
With a thundering heartbeat, Till leans back on the wall and lingers. Waits. Without the watch on him, likely pocketed in the jacket, seconds crawl by to form a singular minute, then another, and another. Till doesn’t know how much time passes, stuck in the tides, accompanied by loud conversations and cheers from inside, which overpower the energetic music flowing from the radio.
V is nowhere to be seen.
It stings. The odds have been against him from the start, just as the cards he is usually dealt, making him lose miserably. That’s what Till already expected, yet clung to hope all the same until the very last moment. A foolish tendency.
Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, Ivan told him once, referencing the saying people on Earth invented after he beat Till in yet another game. Till scoffed, finding those words a mockery, an Ivan-like tease to rub his win over Till — yet Ivan must have always meant them. Until the very last day. Luck for Till, and its lack for Ivan. He didn’t stay long enough to see that they both found misfortune within this feeling.
A few distant meteors catch Till’s attention before the pang in his chest does it. He watches them with tightly pressed lips and lets another realization form somewhere between them, as if written in the stars: he doesn’t want to run away. The thought pushes Till back on his feet, still impossibly scared yet filled with more confidence.
“You would call me an idiot for hesitating, huh?” Till quietly asks with a small, unguarded smile. It’s a sign. His personal signal, to do this.
The conversations inside haven’t lost their volume, yet there is no voice towering over them, amplified by a mic, indicating the space on the stage is ready to be claimed. Till takes a forced, deep breath, and walks inside.
The first people to notice him are those lingering by the door — the supposed goodbyes that turned into another conversation, whoever meant to leave trapped once more in a never-ending loop. Till marches further inside, aquamarine eyes locked on the small stage so they don’t accidentally make contact with others, too scared of watching their reactions— the moments they realize what his hands tightly clutch onto.
It doesn’t matter. Not when his ears remain unplugged and aware of the rising shift among formed groups inside the bar, from tables occupied with cards, some just supporting bottles filled by varying amounts, some a rest for joined hands under flushed cheeks, to the never-ending competition of dart-throwing and occupied bar counter stools. Someone’s drawing a caricatured, dead segyein on the wall next to other, varied doodles people have been leaving over the years. One second, conversations overlap, creating a cacophony Till usually got a migraine from if he exceeded his usual stay, and the next they are gone in an unusual silence between the energetic tunes pooling from the radio. Gasps and hushed questions.
Till unplugs the old music device rather carelessly; if it refuses to turn on afterwards, then he will be the one banned outside until he brings in something usable, or fixable. With shaking legs, he steps on the stage seconds before someone screams, “Are you going to sing, Till?!”
It’s Dewey. When Till looks to him, startled by the sudden, loud noise, the man has both hands cupping his cheeks in a comical display of shock. His dumb enthusiasm is the catalyst for the avalanche that ensues shortly after, as everyone around catches on to the excitement with an uproar.
“Wait, seriously?!”
“When did this happen?!”
“Sing my favorite!”
“Why didn’t you tell me anything!”
The last one belongs to Naya, who springs from behind a table so violently the empty bottle falls off it and breaks into a few pieces. They should pick it up immediately, before one of the drunkards walks into the mess, but no one is paying attention to the shattered glass. Shiny eyes and wide smiles are all focused on Till who is frozen still behind the old mic stand, making an effort to breathe when the usually automatic action fails him. Sweaty palms grip the guitar, heartbeat pulsates in his skull.
Should he blink? What is it if not fear for his eyelids rapidly closing and opening, prolonging the threat of the scenery change? His friends being turned into the bottomless mass of aliens, some with pet humans by their side, either cheering for his survival or feeding on his downfall. The floor polished clean after the previous performance, no sign of splattered blood in the place of old, mismatched tiles rebels keep on scraping over with chairs whenever they get up. The warmth within the space they all share turned into cold, akin to the artificial rain that had once soaked into Till’s skin and clothes. One that perpetually clung to that ghost and stained Till upon his every touch, reminding him of this chill.
Till closes his eyes tightly, shutting out his sight; both ears focus on the noises everyone is making, on the clank of bottles and the sound of footsteps, as if more people pooled into the bar upon hearing the commotion.
Will the performance feel familiar to those he threw in the Anakt Garden? When he violently banged his head up and down until the rush of blood almost knocked him off the feet, or when he sang with everyone, an anemone put behind his ear? To this day, Till doesn’t remember how the flower ended there— only that when he woke up from a nap, it was already woven between his locks. Ivan told him that Mizi would find it cute, so Till begrudgingly left the flower in its new home, between the mess of silver strands. What continuously followed him around weren’t golden eyes, but the dark ones. As they always did.
It’s okay, Till tells himself repeatedly. No one is forcing him to be here, nor are there any consequences attached to this performance. No one to decide his fate and render him powerless. It’s just a twenty-seven-year old Till, in his baggy pants and similarly loose tank top, slightly buzzed from alcohol, on a wooden, shitty stage with an old mic. His hair shorter, albeit close to the length he used to live with after every cut segyein performed on him.
Till opens his eyes to the overflowing enthusiasm and support, unchanged from a minute ago. They quickly scan the faces, yet all they find are distinct features and nothing else. No new faces. No masks.
With the amp flicked on, Till tests the instrument — his hardened fingertips strum the guitar, relishing in the ache that the nights of practice brought, a well-known feeling he thought was left in the past. The strings vibrate under his touch, and people root for him. A slight smile cracks his hardened features when someone’s scream breaks off at the end in a painful pitch.
His hand seizes the mic stand in an iron grasp until his knuckles turn white. “I thought I’d never be back here, and I thought I was fine with it,” Till starts off, realizing that he never prepared what to say. Are there any words that can express what he is feeling right now?
The mic carries his voice into the chaos beyond the stage, causing everyone to quiet enough to hear him. The attention is nerve-wracking, though it promises a buzz of excitement. In the past, this feeling was often overclouded by fear far different from stage fright. Tonight, Till can play by his own rules and stay himself through it all.
“Someone made me realize that I wasn’t,” he continues, the grip on the instrument tighter. Strange, how without the person standing in front of him, to whom his feelings were meant to reach, he still voices them. “I guess I needed a push in the right direction, so I… I appreciate it.”
Till mumbles out the last part faintly enough that those in the back are likely not to understand him. Admitting in front of the whole crowd how he feels when deep, solo conversations still bring him trouble in finding words that won’t choke him out or significantly embarrass him is a step forward he never imagined himself taking.
Yet the sole recipient of Till’s honesty isn’t here to receive it. The clock draws half-past midnight. The wait time is over.
“You guys know this song,” Till announces at last. His fingers touch the guitar strings and strike the first chords.
People burst out with roars. Some of them carry disbelief evident in widened eyes, and how they double-check with nearby people. Some are no more than excited cheers between those who didn’t have a chance to meet Hyuna or hear her performances. A shame; Till pities them, just as he pities himself.
Till notes the quieter reactions, too. Wet eyes, parted lips, the hand that stopped on its way to bring a bottle to the mouth. Recognition that touches people’s hearts in explosive and silent ways. And when Till spots the small, soft smile on Isaac’s face before he sings out the first lines, he already knows that it was worth it.
⋆𝄞⋆
Your eyes grow wide at my dazzling entrance
And your heart beats fast, OK
There’s no point fighting back
This is the march of the fools
⋆𝄞⋆
His voice explodes in the room like it never did during the practice nights — he must have been still holding back, partly by the prospect of waking Theo up, and partly because of a mental clog he hadn’t completely removed despite his best efforts. Seeing those Till cares about gave him the strength to overcome it.
⋆𝄞⋆
Endless cheer and applause
⋆𝄞⋆
The audience responds as if on the mark. But Till hears his voice slightly crack while nearing the chorus, drowned by yells the first line evoked. The euphoria halts, and as he sings, he misses one cord. Heart pounds in his chest. A bed of sweat runs down his temple. There is no need to fret over it, yet his lungs suddenly deprive him of a proper breathing rhythm.
⋆𝄞⋆
I hear the song grow louder and louder
Fill up the entire nebula
⋆𝄞⋆
Till opens his eyes— when did they fall shut? He sees more people near the stage, all his friends moving to the rhythm with absolute delight, and Till can finally realize something. The desire to execute his creations perfectly has always hindered him, leading to endless practice sessions and frustrated bangs against the floor when it wasn’t progressing as planned. Not good enough, always with room for improvement.
The crowd in front of Till is unlike anything he has ever experienced. Their entertainment comes from the show he creates, living in the moment instead of cheering for a promised death by the end of the spectacle. It’s the journey Till sees them participating in, hanging onto his every word, no matter if the note was hit or not. Most of them can’t even sing without going off-key every other second, yet everyone always has a good time.
⋆𝄞⋆
Just laugh, hey kick and break ya
To the galaxy shining bright, Che-cheers
⋆𝄞⋆
Till regains himself as he enters the chorus, swept by everyone’s positive emotions. His hands move on their own through the muscle memory, into which he has poured all of his hard work.
“Fuck yeah!” someone in the back screams at the top of their lungs. The beer nearly sloshes out of their bottle.
Till looks up with a smile…
⋆𝄞⋆
Change the game with a single action
⋆𝄞⋆
…and then almost halts the entire performance.
⋆𝄞⋆
Trust me and I’ll show you, chi-cheers
⋆𝄞⋆
When his voice falters once more, and one finger slips off the string, nerves aren’t behind it anymore. Once spotted, Till is unable to look away from the only person by the door, coated in purple lights shimmering in the bar, cut out from the shadows. Unnoticed by others who face the stage; his attention must be just as stuck on Till, who is certain of it. It must have been disbelief and happiness to cause Till’s momentary stutter. He’s here for me.
⋆𝄞⋆
We only get one life, so I’m living mine for me
'Cause I’m the one from your wildest dreams
I'll create a fantasy in this crazy world
⋆𝄞⋆
With a grin, Till continues, hoping to shake off the remaining brakes holding him back. It’s wild. Till pours his entire soul into it, the joy of singing bringing him to new heights. Throughout the remnants of the chorus, teal, shining eyes barely sway from the man in the back. The last line comes— Till strums the guitar and lets the sound bounce off the walls before lifting his right hand halfway through. Fingers form a gun.
⋆𝄞⋆
And change it all,
⋆𝄞⋆
It takes an aim.
⋆𝄞⋆
I’m going all-in!
⋆𝄞⋆
Bang, it shoots V. Till plays the guitar as the song carries him on without a moment to spare, and whenever his attention drifts to the same spot, V remains there, as if frozen in place. Between the stolen glances and everyone’s cheering, Till loses himself in the feeling. Despite the hopes he was scared to admit to, convincing himself that music isn’t needed in his life anymore, Till didn’t know he could still sound like this. Raw and powerful, as if his voice never went through the long, healing journey. Till feels unstoppable. It’s exhilarating.
⋆𝄞⋆
Ride the waves of passing time
And run with the wind ‘til morning, don’t stop
⋆𝄞⋆
With the last lines delivered, accompanied by the final cord, Till presses on the strings as the song comes to an end. His eyes glisten with unshed tears while they glance down — at the hands that used to be covered in band-aids from excessive practice, noting the reddened skin on the fingertips. Someone ruffles his hair so hard he almost trips, and a smack on the back, likely from Dewey, judging by the force, has Till choking mid-an-unsteady-pant.
“Holy shit, you’re the real deal!”
“Encore!”
“Is this what we could’ve been listening to instead of Naya’s screeching?”
“Screw you,” Naya replies somewhere near Till. One of the arms around his shoulders must belong to her. Judging by her tone, she must be smiling. “Like you’re any better, Dacian!”
When teal meets brown, the connection that rises is fleeting yet unforgettable. Isaac’s soul has been roused. His eyes momentarily shimmer, unnoticed by anyone but Till. You remind me of her, they seem to say under the dim lights.
“Fuck,” Till mumbles; the heel of one of his hands is pressed to one eye after another to collect the wetness that gathered there.
It worked out. If the song energized the crowd, or if it brought memories, if he did it justice, then… isn’t that what matters most, after the cloud of doubt hung over him for so long? Till holds onto the enthusiasm his performance stirred just a bit longer despite almost being trampled on.
Then at once, he jolts upright. Dewey whines somewhere above him — the man must have been hit in the chin by Till’s head, but it’s only his fault for hovering, isn’t it? Till is already detaching himself from everyone, staring toward the bar’s entrance even before the last person stops obscuring his vision.
There’s no one by the door anymore.
“Guys, wait,” Till says, but his voice is almost drowned out by others. It quivers ever so slightly after that shot of adrenaline. If he doesn’t hurry, then V—
“Hey, let him breathe,” comes Theo’s voice, a rare instance. They’re usually in bed by that hour. “It was his first song in years.”
Till doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle more than one tonight. The guitar lands in the hands of the friend who has just given him a window to briefly leave, assuring everyone about his return. Legs carry Till outside, and even before spotting the familiar silhouette, he is already on the way to catch up with the quiet, seemingly unnoticed retreat.
“Bastard,” is what Till starts with, somewhat winded but unable to keep a smile off his face. V stopped once he caught up. “Did you make me run on purpose after I almost drew my last breath over there, or what?”
The man tilts his head to the side, which, in the moment, could mean either yes, you got me, or, I don’t know what you are talking about. Both plausible.
Distant ruckus fills the starry night, the sky tinted by a red glow left by meteors headed to different galaxies. The sight must be beautiful, but Till doesn’t look above the dark mask, beyond the crown of black hair. There’s a vast galaxy — maybe even an all-consuming black hole — right in front of him.
“...you came,” he says softly at last.
V reaches for the notebook. As he writes, Till notes dried, purple blood on the soles of his boots, likely a result of walking across the mess his weapons caused. Dirty gloves around the pencil and the notebook, a bit of hair stuck under the mask. All of it, a state V represents after returning to the base, before heading to his own, secret place. The mess he didn’t clean before going to witness Till’s first performance. Did he hurry up, discarding everything else?
“I thought I’d be too late.”
“I hoped to see you if I waited,” Till blurts out.
The pencil between V’s fingers hovers above the page for a short moment, during which Till looks away, aware of the heat crawling up his face. Teal eyes face forward only when the notebook is turned his way. “It took more time than I expected.”
So you planned to be there, thunders in Till’s head as he takes a step forward. The distance shortens, settling on the line that dictates where one’s personal space usually begins. Till’s would have already been crossed, yet as the one to breach it, he pays it no mind. He feels elevated. You couldn’t be on time, yet you headed to the bar first.
“And what did you think?” Till breathes out the question he believed he would not be able to ask when his feet carried him on the stage. Maybe on another night, the thought crossed him previously, unaware of the footsteps approaching the old building. His next exhale is shaky, and it’s so strange— still too winded despite already taking a moment to recollect himself. As if his entire being hinged on that one question.
V’s strangely slow writing is maddening. Usually, someone who gets to the point without mincing his words, now pausing every other second, as if filled with hesitation. It never bothered him to dunk on Till— would he feel bad to insult something precious to Till again? Does he not know what to say without sounding very harsh? Is he—
Till’s rampage of anticipative, anxious thoughts is cut short.
“You were breathta amazing.”
The sin is committed before rationality kicks in. Till moves as if his own heart has taken control of his body, surging forward despite the notebook between the two of them. It gets knocked out somewhere beside their feet with a resounding thud Till misses over the louder beat in his chest; the organ rattles against his ribcage, looking for a perfect moment it can burst out of its prison. Till grabs V’s face through it all, meeting the chill of its material instead of a warmth that runs through people, yet the sensation seems to burn in contrast to his heated hands. A premonition, telling him to stop playing with the fire. It falls deaf to his ears.
The touch under Till’s lips is icy once they settle against the mask. Just a press that can’t be reciprocated, with a barrier between them that lasts a short few seconds before the whole world crashes down, engulfed by the promised flames their connection brought. Till stumbles away until there’s a gaping distance between the two, eyes wide open in horror. The breath he takes is shaky; one after another, they shudder as his lungs forcibly fight against the tight pressure in his chest. All of a sudden, his body is cold from terror. The fingers that grip his throat promise new bruises.
“I— I—” Till crashes down from the adrenaline that has just left him; all that’s left is a frigid sense of dread seizing his body. Only broken sentences leave his stained mouth now. “I’m so sorry— I shouldn’t have done that, I—”
A thought assails him, shameless in its nature. V never pushed him away, yet what does it matter? What would it change if he reciprocated? The two paths lead to the same result where Till currently stands, horrified to have irrevocably crossed the line. A dead end he can’t salvage, even if V didn’t care enough to distance himself and act indifferent, as if nothing happened.
Till broke the promise. There’s no saving it now. No remedy.
Now, when his lips have tried to touch another’s ever since Ivan’s laid on his.
What has he done?
Tears blur his vision before they pour out in a pained waterfall. The itch under his fingertips grows unbearable, but as much as Till tries to stop the shortness of breath that joins his shaking body, it’s too late. A price to pay for getting caught up in his own feelings. As expected of you, the inner words are a whispering snake, reminding him of the rotten inability to control impulses wracking through his body.
“I-I thought I’d never feel this way towards someone again. I wasn’t supposed to,” Till lets out in a trembling, contorted voice. His free hand wipes at the tear-stained skin, yet the previous trails are immediately followed by the never-ending cascade. The sharp, uneven laughter that escapes him is incredulous, like an explosive burst of insanity. “I don’t know if I will ever stop feeling messed up! Especially while I still—, I will never give up on—, fuck, fuck I’m just so fucking pathetic and unfair!”
Till gasps, trying to swallow down his contorted throat. The hand that tried to erase the tears slides into silver hair deeper than it could for many years, and tugs until his scalp burns in pain that travels behind his eyelids. A distraction strong enough to ground this madness and let him breathe through the stabbing pain in the chest. Pieces of him that are falling apart, yet Till desperately keeps putting them together so as not to lose himself.
Was it always bound to happen? Ever since Till started drawing similarities between V and Ivan, falling into the narrative to the point of no return— until they began overlapping? Like a piece of shit seeing someone else instead of the new person who entered his life, drowning in countless comparisons, searching for them, unconsciously or not. Falling for another man even though he will never be first. Sharing his heart when it was already locked and promised on a platter for Ivan, even though the man could never receive it now.
What a joke, when Till isn’t still able to discern where his feelings begin and end. Where their sincerity lies.
“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” Till whispers, eyes stuck on the black boots with dried blood. The boots that carried this man to watch him tonight. And Till destroyed everything in seconds. He can’t even look the man in the eyes— because they’re watching. Till can tell, always. “Please forget it.”
If one of them does, then can they still save this?
The churn of his stomach is unmistakable. The fully blown panic Till has been trying to cover threatens to spill from under the cracking lid; Till has no other choice but to turn around and run. Wind crashes against his exposed shoulders and arms while his legs pass the bar. The guitar can stay there for now. Till doesn’t know if he can look at the instrument tonight.
And then, he starts breaking apart. Till tumbles inside his room and kicks the door shut a second before his legs finally give up. What greeted him was the faint light pooling inside, a shine that lit up the wall full of drawings. Ivan, Ivan, V, Ivan, V, Ivan, Ivan, Ivan.
There are hands back in his hair. Around his throat. His forehead hits the ground as the audible sobs he’s been concealing finally burst out, only for his own ears to hear, contained within the walls. An uncontrolled, fucking mess who doesn’t know what to do anymore. In the moment, what remains is tremendous guilt. The ghost never appears— why would it? The day V became a part of his life, Ivan imposed a punishment on him. Everything, every bitter suspicion, finally has an answer.
So Till cries, scratches, punches, muffles his screams, and bites his lip until he tastes iron, until he can’t anymore. Time halted. He doesn’t remember when his body began moving again after it stopped pretending to be an empty shell. It’s heavy as it finally leaves the cold floor and collapses on the unkempt bed. Numb. Till curls in himself. From now on, he has to play the game he already played in the past — when Ivan pretended that the meteor shower night never existed. His act was painfully believable, while Till was only beginning to learn how to pretend that nothing happened between them. That Ivan didn’t give him the whole world only for Till to refuse it.
As much as Till wants V, simultaneously he doesn’t want anything to change. He will be choking under the unbelievable act until it becomes his second skin, and he needs V to forget, but— no, he doesn’t want him to. It’s selfish.
So, so selfish.
*
The layers of clothing seem convenient, Till realizes. If he disappeared under them and stopped talking altogether, then maybe he wouldn’t actively avoid the attention people have been wanting to shower him with. I can’t believe I missed this, one of them said after catching Till before he escaped the dining hall. When will you sing again, another asked.
Can you do it tonight?
Do you take requests?
Could you show me your guitar?
People didn’t push too much; Till’s obvious, detached mood, which couldn’t be hidden under a smile, made everyone do a double-take. After all, why would he suddenly sink into a gloomy hole after the performance that left him exhilarated?
“The guitar is still in the bar,” Isaac tells him one morning.
Till hums above the layout he’s been trying to memorize before the next mission. His focus is scattered — thoughts refuse to yield his control, instead determined to replay that night over and over again, always accompanied by shame. Having the guitar back in his room would only intensify it.
When it becomes apparent that Till won’t provide a verbal answer, Isaac asks after the silence stretches out, “Was it too much?”
It prompts Till to look to the side and meet brown eyes. The man is watching him closely, leaning against the drawer. Why? Because it was Hyuna’s song?
Till’s lips quirk up a little in something more than a forced smile, even if briefly. “No, just… That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” Naya pipes in, and her unexpected voice makes Till jump in the seat.
He chances a glance behind him— and there she is, coped on the floor on the other side of the room. Her cherry hair must have been in a bun once, before unruly strands started slipping out from under the rubber band, creating a half-ponytail in the process. Two empty mugs sit on wrinkled paper with multiple brown stains. Till wonders if the contents of it were destined to be trashed from the get-go, or if the sheet was deemed unusable after she spilled her coffee.
“Nothing,” Till dismisses and turns forward. Still, he can feel the burn of grey eyes on the back of his head.
Normally, Naya would give him space and rarely push— which she did, in the beginning. Yet when over a week had passed, with Till’s head in the clouds and endless ruminating, endless preparations in case he were to see V, and his distractions landing a wrench on someone’s luckily covered foot, she started pushing after it became clear that grief wasn’t the perpetrator. Ironically, it’s causing Till to childishly withdraw even more.
“Do I have to start guessing like Isaac?” She sighs.
Till has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop potential remarks thrown her way. Naya is right, but what does it fucking matter? With more time, he will learn to live with this, even if the relationship he’s built never returns to what it used to be.
“Oh,” Naya speaks up again, and Till already doesn’t like where this is going. “Are you fighting with V again? Didn’t I see you two yesterda—”
“What do you want me to say?!” Till snaps. A pen slides down the table, rattled by the connection Till’s clenched hand made with the wood. Nails still dig into his flesh as he calms down. He knows why he’s like this. It’s helplessness. “I— I fucked up, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Till hates how small his voice sounds, roughed around the edges. His friends shouldn’t be listening to the one-sided mess he caused another night. Ever since, he didn’t know how to act around V. The words used in conversations felt empty and meaningless, and the mutual silence they knew so well, comfortable around its corners, began to suffocate Till. V never mentioned the night — his head would still incline in a greeting, the jacket containing the notebook for communicating. But Till’s hands would threaten to reach his reddened neck, to reopen the shallow scratches that turned into blisters over old scars, no matter if he was attempting to draw in the meantime. The itch grew in hunger, as if it were already winter. The new pages in the sketchbook remained eerily empty.
“It couldn’t be that bad,” Naya replies after a moment.
She never attempts to pointlessly cheer him up, too rooted in reality. A rational mindset; it must be one of her traits that Till navigated to, chasing after the logical reasoning behind his shoulder that used to piss him off back in the day. Only for it to disappear one day.
“You can’t know that.”
“Wouldn’t he distance himself from you again?”
“But it was… bad,” Till settles on, having no other word to describe it. No— that’s a lie. He just cannot make himself say it out loud.
“Maybe,” Naya concedes. “It depends on his reaction. Is he angry?”
“...”
A sigh. “Till. Did you two talk? I mean— communicate?”
“You don’t understand,” Till replies curtly. “I… can’t.”
He has already closed multiple rifts that opened between them in the past through words and actions, the former a never-ending challenge no matter how much he grew older. They aren’t his forte, yet does that mean he shouldn’t try?
That kiss opened the gates of hell — at least, that’s how Till envisions the religious depictions believed on Earth. To close them, Till has to give himself up to the contradictory feelings and reveal a part of himself kept tightly between the walls of his heart, its only witness the piece of Ivan Till would never part from. The witness to his betrayal.
“I’m going to sleep,” Till follows shortly after. A definite end to the conversation Isaac started that Naya picked up. “See you in the evening.”
Naya grumbles her goodbyes and settles back in her messy corner. Till can’t hold the annoyance against her. The only obstacle between him and the door is Isaac’s stare, present throughout the entire exchange. Teal eyes drop on the way to the exit, anxious about what they would find in the usually self-proclaimed disinterest, yet deep down kind brown. Sometimes, Till wonders if this is what it feels like to have an older brother. They don’t interject in your life, yet stand nearby in case you trip and fall. They don’t catch you either— they’d rather let you navigate this mess and extend a hand if standing on two feet proves impossible. Till would never be able to admit it.
A few days — and for Till, mostly nights — pass in a slow, agonizing blur. One moment, they’re in the operations room, planning the next break-in, the next, they’re hopping into the pick-up cars, weapons strapped to belts, bandanas ready to cover their faces. Pairs assigned, tasks designated.
Later, Till would learn that the planned collapse of a genetic testing facility turned victorious. They succeeded but not without losing two people, with major and minor injuries in tow.
The sudden release of a toxin in the room with Till and Carel, one of the newer members who got paired with more experienced people, marks the moment the situation spirals out of control. The material on their faces does nothing to prevent the exposure, and suddenly, pain twists Till’s body as the room spins, elevating the nausea. All at once, he struggles to grasp exactly what surrounds them and if the nearby figures are conjured or real.
“Out,” Till manages through clenched teeth.
There is no response. Was Till alone all along? Did Carel already escape? Where does reality begin to shape, and where does it collapse?
His thoughts are cut short when something heavy connects with his body, and before Till knows it, sharp pain erupts in his chest as he gasps against the cold floor. The inner crack was unmistakable, just like every subsequent intake of air, which only worsens the situation with each attempt. With a big foot pressing against his cracked rib, Till manages to scream through his choked-up breathing. The building shakes a second later— at least, Till assumes so, as segyein leave him to die on the floor, marking him as a lost cause.
Is that it? Is he going to choke on his own blood and die from asphyxiation? The taste of iron fills his mouth, and then the tiles turn red under him, his body shifted to the opposite side of the broken rib clearly piercing something it shouldn’t. Maybe if he was paying attention, this would never happen. But he was distracted, wasn’t he? Every single day, even when it mattered. Too deep in his own fucking head. To finally pay for it now. To leave unfinished matters behind, and never see V again.
His heart doesn’t slow down yet, rapidly pumping blood as pain intensifies when Till tries to take a deep breath. Bangs and clanks echo all around, walls close in one second and backtrack in the next one. Tiny bugs begin to crawl out from under his skin, escaping the dying host. The instinctive will to fight, to survive in the face of the reaper lurking in the shifting shadows, pushes him through disorientation and fear. One hand grasps at his throat— to choke or to pose as a futile attempt to seize more oxygen is unknown to him. Through his increasingly painful breath, through the confusion and fear, air escapes him. Ah, Till must be slowly succumbing to his death in this buzzing disorientation.
Why else, among the strange, disembodied humming, would he hear Ivan screaming his name?
Did the ghost decide to return only to take Till’s hand and carry him beyond the line life draws? If Till could put together his raging thoughts, he’d note the cruelty of the timing, when he’s unable to reciprocate, too weak to sit up and search for Ivan, to follow after him. At the mercy of his fate.
“Till!”
It’s there again, but— Ivan never screamed, did he? The lack of oxygen must be throwing Till into a spiral. His breaths turned shallow who knows when, and his body started to panic; tears blur his vision further before they trickle down to mix with blood, his eyelids grow heavy as lungs continuously fail him. It doesn’t matter anymore. The real Ivan is dead. Till will finally be able to see him soon—
…how soon?
Despite his head partly turned to the side, Till sees him, kneeling by. The ghost never appeared in this form before — dressed in dark, tainted clothes, parts of longer, black hair sticky with blood. Teal moves from the tangled strands, looking for the eyes he couldn’t stare into for the past few years. If possible, he wouldn’t mind those red specks, swallowed by darkness, being the last thing he saw. Only then does Till’s hazy mind realize what the biggest difference in Ivan’s appearance is.
Why is his face covered by the mask V always wears?
Suddenly, the same tooth pokes out from under the upper lip, a permanent part of Ivan through all the stages of their lives, through all apparitions the hallucination decided to take, as the mask is pulled high enough to reveal a part of his face.
“No,” the voice says.
It comes out clear without the mask muffling the sound, yet the voice is painfully hoarse, almost sore; it reminds Till of the time he spoke in a similar manner. Out of practice, rusty, dormant. And yet this short word, uttered in the space between them, resonates outside the excruciating pain his body is stuck in, outside the ringing in his ears. Is his collapsing mind playing a cruel joke on him?
Year by year, Till begged to see him, to hear him. His last, parting gift was granted, yet not without the mockery that came out of the merged form of two people in front of him. A dry cough spasms his entire body, and the sudden, unwanted movement flares another wave of pain in his chest. How deplorable could his fucking consciousness be?
His hands shift, trying to clench at his clothes — a natural body reaction, as if it would help him breathe without feeling like a knife was thrust between his ribs with every shallow attempt. Somehow, an invisible force is continuously crushing his throat, bit by bit depriving him of air.
Yet they don’t make it before the hands that don’t belong to him suddenly make contact. The sound of raspy, quiet words of apology dies under Till’s choked scream as he’s shifted on his back, and it only eradicates the control he’s been trying to maintain through the agony breathing came with. One of the hands cradles the back of his head just enough to not lie flat on the ground and choke on his own blood, but it’s the unexpected cold on his hot skin that forces his closed-shut eyes to peek.
In that brief moment, before his vision is completely obscured, Till thinks he recognizes the feeling — the touch of a prosthetic. And then, a pair of lips pries open his bloody mouth and connects them into one.
Air flows down to Till’s lungs in the first wave. It hurts enough for his teeth to bite down while unable to openly make sound, and Till can’t tell if it’s just his own blood on his tongue now. They scratch against something else, too.
All at once, as the seal between them isn’t broken, the panic of losing control over breathing lessened under a brief moment of clarity, the whole world around Till collapses. His very being shakes under its heaviness — the reality.
There’s no ghost above Till. The stolen kiss the conjured Ivan provides feels tangible, a trickery his mind is capable of — but the fleeting sense of relief in his body that steadies him as the second blow of air is delivered can’t be his near-death fantasy. Oxygen rushes to his head. If Till was so deluded right now, wouldn’t he be dead? Could the toxin trip him into bottomless oblivion? How could it, when…
Till remembers this strong, desperate press of lips. Remembers the feeling of a singular tooth digging in, causing a prickle of pain. Perhaps the only sensation he would be able to recall on his deathbed.
The voice could be a delusion— but the fang? Till never forgot that despair and love, wrapped in a steadfast resolve, that showed in the light grasp around his throat, in every kiss, scarringly evident in the final peck.
It all but disappears too soon. Having to breathe on his own hurts, every inhale a lick of fire that can’t be stopped. Yet through it all, Till forces his eyes to still stay open. The tips of his fingers dig into tiles, and the added source of controlled pain helps to ground the moment in reality instead of a delusion. There are no unnatural shadows, no footsteps in the back, since there’s still no one here but them. Bugs aren’t crawling inside his skin. The roof isn’t lowering itself. The shadows don’t step into the fluorescent lights.
One illusion after another — all but not the person above him.
It takes everything in Till’s power to keep raising a trembling hand, bit by agonizing bit. Tears escape the corners of his half-open eyes, and his parted mouth, focused on taking shallow breaths, quivers, forced to move.
“I… Iva…”
The effort to say one word, one name, four letters, the bane of his existence, and his light, physically hurts to get out, yet leaves a deeper burn within his soul. There was no one to receive it anymore— there should have never been one. It was the final price to pay, deemed an equal exchange for Till’s life that was meant to be extinguished, perhaps from the start. Then how? How?
Till can’t even finish his name when the pale skin and the fang disappear from sight; the familiar mask deceptively hides everything once more, like it did in the past few years. Even in the emergency situation, the opportunity to speak is taken by the very man Till yearned to address, callous just as he always has been. The excruciating reprieve flares with frustration. Why would you do this to me? What was your point? Why, why, why—
The acute pain from being picked up momentarily blanks Till’s mind. He doesn’t notice his teeth biting hard onto his bottom lip until fingers press against it, forcing the mouth to open — a reminder to try breathing. Something lands on his chest, and as Till’s arm is repositioned to hold it, he thinks it must be V’s— Ivan’s jacket.
It’s all it takes for the haziness in Till’s head to spiral out of control. He floats through this lucid dream as more tears fall, as his body stays in a secure grip even if to alleviate his pain only a little, as his head rests against a warm chest. The heartbeat that echoes with Till’s is nearly as fast and rhythmical. Proof of Ivan’s existence. Proof of his lies, deteriorating one by one within the hold of his familiar arms.
Till’s body remembers. How Ivan smelled whenever he leaned on the boy in Anakt, of his natural scent mixed with Unsha’s specifically picked cosmetics. How safe it was to let himself drop the fight and rest, when a pair of arms was already there to catch him after another series of needless prying into his skin and multiple hands painfully twisting his limbs, leaving cuts and bruises. How Ivan’s lap felt under his head during a nap, how he sometimes recalled that missing memory, as if he turned into a flower that needed to be nuzzled.
All of it, everything, etched in Till and brought back with every second that passed in Ivan’s hold. A broken record player, an onslaught at the end of which is Till. Time slips away through his weak grasp, somewhere between sleep and consciousness, the squeeze around his shoulder a reminder to not let go. The pain from being moved is alerting, yet the touch of a familiar hand pacifies him, brushing grey, sticky hair back; Till presses into it when suddenly more hands appear to check and stabilize his body. Then, the whirr of an engine, multiple voices. Until Ivan’s warmth is pried away from him.
Teal eyes fly open to familiar faces above, to the familiar ceiling, to Luna’s distant voice, searching and pained and panicked. Because Till cannot lose him now, he cannot let him get away— Till needs him the most in the whole wretched universe, to stay with him now and forever, but Ivan easily slips out of the fragile grasp that Till’s hand tried to keep within his hold. Almost harshly.
Please, you bastard, Till thinks when his voice fails him between sobs, even as the respiratory mask is put on his face. Someone talks to him, promising that he’s safe now, but they don’t understand. The tears that fall are for the person walking away.
Don’t leave me again, Ivan, Till pleads, but no one hears him.
Ivan walks out without turning back.
And then, he disappears.