Chapter Text
It all happened too fast. Till was too slow to stop it.
He looks down at the ground, at an almost lifeless Ivan staring up at him as blood spills from his wounds. The smell of iron and death engulfs Till’s nostrils, yet Ivan looks at him with those same endearing eyes, the same sweet smile—just like all those times before, the ones Till had pretended to ignore.
Ignored for what?
For this to happen?
As his thoughts spiral, as every moment he could have done things differently flashes through his mind, Till falls to his knees. He clutches Ivan in his arms, desperate, trembling, wishing—praying—that this is just a dream, something he’ll wake up from.
But he knows.
He knows that Ivan is slipping away. That they will take him. That there’s nothing he can do.
Tears spill down his cheeks as he holds onto Ivan, refusing to let go, chanting over and over again:
"I’m sorry, I’m sorry."
His voice cracks, raw with regret, until he feels a cold hand on his left cheek, gently forcing him to look. To meet Ivan’s fading gaze.
A weak chuckle leaves Ivan’s lips. His smile never falters.
"Don’t cry now, Till." His voice is barely above a whisper, yet it reaches Till like a scream. "I’m glad… you’re finally looking at me."
Ivan looks at him with such endearment, like he always has. Hasn’t he? If only Till had looked at him just a little more. If only he had run away with him that night. Couldn’t all of this have been avoided? A ragged cough tears through the silence, snapping Till out of his thoughts. His breath hitches as he stares down at Ivan, watching him intently. Ivan’s voice is trembling, weak, but still gentle when he speaks.
"You know… the way you sang in Round 2…" He trails off, his breath barely steady. “I wished it was me… who you were singing to.”
Till chokes on air.
A weak chuckle leaves Ivan’s lips as he lifts a bloodstained hand, caressing Till’s cheek.
“Now… won’t you sing for me, Till?”
Till’s throat tightens as fresh tears spill down his face, landing on Ivan’s bloodied chest. He looks at the man he once refused to believe he loved—the man he pushed aside, choosing instead to idolize Mizi, convincing himself that she was the one he longed for. Writing songs for her. Drawing her. Devoting himself to her. All while the one who truly stood by his side watched in silence.
A sob catches in his throat, his breath stuttering. He tries to speak—tries to say something, anything—
"I-Ivan… I—"
Ivan’s fingers tremble as they reach for him, his touch weak, barely there. His voice is no more than a breath.
“Please, Till… just this. Just sing for me… Look at me.”
Till knows the clock is ticking. Knows that even if he tries to stop the bleeding, nothing will change. His entire body shakes as he chokes on his own sobs—but still, he sings. He sings the part he didn’t sing on stage. The part that maybe—just maybe—if he had sung, Ivan wouldn’t have had to do this. Maybe Ivan would have won. He opens his mouth. The first note comes out broken. He tries again. This time, his voice wavers, choked with grief.Ivan’s gaze softens—like he’s memorizing every bit of Till’s face, as if committing it to memory before it’s too late.
Till clutches Ivan’s hand, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turn white.
And even though his heart is shattering, even though every part of him is screaming, he sings.
For him.