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While finding Till slumped against the wall of one of the private rooms isn't surprising, it's still absolutely heartbreaking.
Till looks disheveled, sick, with sweat beading on his forehead and making his clothes stick to his body — but most of all, he looks so hurt. Hurt in a way that doesn't heal like bruises do. Even his sleep is fitful, the dreamland not letting him escape the nightmares of their reality. He must feel disgusting all over. Urak left him here for now, so he's probably not coming back to collect his 'property' anytime soon. There's no way Till will be able to take care of himself in this state.
Till scrunches his face and Ivan finally quits hovering over him in favour of crouching down. He nuzzles his face softly, feels the heat radiating from it. Till's body temperature is abnormally high right now, though it should recede when he finally comes back to consciousness. It's not like Ivan can do anything about it anyway.
Ivan's never been good at consoling people, but it seems that his attempt at a semblance of comfort is fruitful as Till unconsciously relaxes under his touch. Ivan lets out a breath of relief. Honestly, it's been a wild guess. Till never seemed to mind his touch before, but under current circumstances he might not welcome it so happily anymore. Still, Ivan keeps their faces pressed together. He hears more than feels Till's breathing gradually slowing down.
Maybe it's been 10 minutes, maybe longer, but he eventually sees Till stir from his sleep. Ivan immediately moves away. He's sure that now, awake and somewhat conscious, Till won't appreciate the contact anymore. He groggily opens his eyes. Ivan is glad he kept the lights off, otherwise Till surely would have winced now. Ivan didn't want to add any more pain on him. The unfocused eyes sweep over him, unseeing. He's so out of it, Ivan briefly thinks. He waits for Till to come back to his senses for a few minutes, until he sees his hand jerking a few times, trying to grip something yet not finding any purchase on the dirty tiles.
"Can you talk?" Ivan asks under his breath, not wanting to put a strain on Till.
"Gha..." Till slightly opens his mouth, clearly struggling to get any words out. Ivan isn't sure whether the other boy heard him at all though, he might have just involuntarily groaned in pain. The drugs may be wearing off but it still will be a long while until he will be fully coherent.
"Can you hear me?" This time Ivan's determined gaze locks with Till's eyes, seeing a glint of understanding in them. It's enough to get the message through. The older boy decides to stay there for a little longer, letting Till get accustomed to his surroundings, regaining the knowledge of the past few hours. Till thickly swallows when Ivan gets closer again.
"I will pick you up now," he says gently, a sullen lilt in his tone.
Even though Till tries to brace himself through the fog in his mind, his skin is crawling all over the moment Ivan's arms come in contact. It's like he got bugs under his skin, living, buzzing, eating him alive. Ivan grips him (lightly, Till realizes in the haze) under his arms and knees and shifts his weight onto his torso. Till's jaw tenses as he tries to focus on the ceiling while being carried through the dark corridors. Anything. Anything, but not the burning sensation on his body. Each passing second makes the places where they meet grow hotter. Till wants to peel his skin off. His vision is swaying and he can't keep his head up. He lets it fall down and shivers when it lands on Ivan's shoulder.
They eventually make it to the bathroom. For a fancy place like that it seems quite unsuitable. It's dimly lit, a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The paint is peeling from the baby-blue-turned-gray walls. Opposite to the door is a toilet, next to it a sink with cabinets down to the floor — cleaning supplies are kept inside — and on the adjacent wall is a bathtub. There's a single white stool cramped between the edge of the bathtub and the sink. It doesn't look great either, definitely timeworn. The many scrapes on its side probably came from someone trying to move the chair from its place to no avail. Overally, the place is more suitable for a worker's hostel than this lavish complex, but it has a bath and is far away from the main rooms, so it will suffice.
Till concludes that Ivan must have finally reached their destination. He briefly registers being lowered onto a stool, Ivan leaning over, and his body promptly slumps against the wall. The cold surface brings some reprieve to his uncomfortably hot body. As he starts getting comfortable, leaning slightly to the right on the sink, he sees Ivan turn his back to him. Where is he going now? Is he gonna leave him here? Well, maybe it would be for the better, Till can wait until the effects wear down—
Ivan locks the door.
Till feels sick to his stomach. Fuck. Fuck, he should have known this. He knows Ivan is fucked in the head. He should have somehow protested when Ivan first got his hands on him. In this state he can't even do anything, he's completely helpless, just— just has to endure whatever comes next. Ivan hovers over him, caging Till with his body— Till doesn't have it in himself to protest, doesn't have it to even think when he's so overridden with fear. It's gripping his limbs and making his head spin. Suddenly even the flickering lightbulb on the ceiling is too bright for him.
Abruptly, Ivan retreats with an abashed expression, as if realizing something.
"I can move you to the floor," Ivan says as he takes a step back. Till's breathing gradually gets slower again. He didn't even realize when he got so agitated. "I have to touch you now," Ivan warns, once again confining Till in the cramped space between the sink and the tub. Till looks up, still slightly lightheaded from getting so worked up earlier. He shuts his eyes when Ivan holds him around his back and puts a hand at the back of his head. Till wobblily puts his feet on the floor, finally somewhat cooperating with him, and lets himself be softly led down. Ivan finally takes his hand back and Till's head thuds against the plastic cabinets.
He faintly hears the water running on his left, but he doesn't really pay attention to it. He's still trembling with eyes shut, trying to cut off the entire world. He stays in his little bubble until he feels a warm wet cloth pressed to the side of his face. He flinches at the sensation and his eyes bolt open.
"Just me," Ivan says. He's crouched down to be level faced with Till. He runs the cloth slowly under his eye. "I'll clean you up." Ivan's heart aches as he looks at the sight in front of him. Till trying so hard to stay still, to be brave, to not give in to the fear swirling in his chest, never once meeting his eyes. He breaths heavily through his mouth, his breath staggering every now and then. Ivan runs the washcloth, wiping off the numerous tear streaks staining Till's pink cheeks and the leftover drool on his chin. Once he's done with it, he stands up (purposefully next to the sink, not in front of it, not to make Till feel threatened again) to get some cold water on the fabric. When he's crouched down again, he brings it to his beloved's forehead. Till sighs, pleased, closing his eyes again. At long last there's something he enjoys about the process. Ivan moves to sit next to him and keeps the cloth there for the time being. When he deems it enough he takes it back and proceeds to dry Till's face with a small towel.
The motion makes Till scrunch up his nose. Cute.
When the washcloth is soaked in warm water once again, Ivan turns to the other boy.
"Till," he starts gently, trying to not scare him off. He knows what he's about to say next won't be met with easy acceptance. Till blearily opens his eyes.
"I have to take your shirt off."
No.
Till's eyes widen, he tries to back off into the cabinets, alarmed.
"N-no" he manages to stumble out. It's visibly still a challenge for him. He looks like a cornered prey. "No."
"I'll make it quick," Ivan promises, already leaning closer, his expression unreadable. Till's huffed out breaths fall on his face. Ivan tries to grab the fabric on the forearm as delicately as he can, snaggletooth biting into his lower lip with how focused he is. Till is shaking but he lets Ivan take the shirt off. He weakly wiggles his arm out of the sleeve and they repeat the process for the other one. To no surprise, freeing Till's sluggish limbs without actually touching him proves to be a difficult task to Ivan. Keeping his distance is impossible. He methodically pulls the shirt so it won't get stuck on Till's arms.
Finally, the cloth makes it to the floor. It's stained with wine, has large darker spots on the back and under the armpits... Ivan doesn't want to know what the other dirty stains are. He directs his attention back to Till.
His chest rises and falls with quick breaths, head tipped back. God, he looks like he's gonna fall apart any second now. He's so stressed out. With Till bare, Ivan can see that where his clothes were especially ruffled are now red imprints of hand-resembling paws on his body. Fingernails (or rather claws) have cut though the skin in a few places. Something ugly swirles in Ivan's chest. His frown deepens. If only he was—
He rouses from his chain of thoughts, redirecting his attention to the panicking boy. He was beginning to regret taking Till's shirt off, but he had to do this.
"It's fine," Ivan tries to calm him down. He frantically searches with his eyes for something to distract Till with. He finally decides on giving him a shower head to hold onto. Beggars can't be choosers. Till immediately grips the object with such strength as if his life depended on it. Well, at least as much strength as he could muster now. "Just focus on it for now." Ivan tries to keep his promise, making quick work of washing the sweat of his upper body — arms, neck (Till's breath hitches there), below collarbones and on his sternum. He avoids all of the sore and sensitive spots. Ivan's hand never makes it below his middle, moving onto his back instead. Very fucking well, Till thinks. If Ivan moved any lower Till would have chomped his hand off. Or bashed his own skull into the sink. He still gripped the shower head tightly, trying to redirect all of his attention towards it.
"I'll only dry you and it's the end," Ivan reaches for the towel again. He begins to dry Till's chest. He's careful, he really is, but in doing so he still accidentally brushes his elbow against Till's stomach.
Till freezes.
His body acts on his own. His knee jerks, hitting Ivan and throwing him off-balance and tumbling backwards. He gasps for air and leans back.
"I can—haa, move now," he heaves. "I can do it on my own."
"Okay," Ivan replies, standing up and backing away. "Do you need help up?"
"I'll manage," Till rasps as he pushes himself up. It proves to be exceptionally difficult, but Till is nothing if not persistent.
"I'll be waiting outside," Ivan looks one last time over his shoulder when he leaves. Till limps towards the door, supporting himself on the wall, and promptly locks it.
***
Till emerges from the bathroom nearly an hour later. The buttons of his shirt are all in the wrong buttonholes, and not even all of them are fastened. Maybe five or four. He washed his bottom half and made himself somewhat presentable. Buttoning his shirt up took him additional 20 minutes. His fingers lacked coordination and fumbled with the clasps for way too long, but he had to do it. He knows if he came out disheveled like earlier Ivan would button his shirt for him, so he took the extra effort. He didn't care how he looked.
He switches the lights off and leans against the wall. Ivan hands him an uncapped bottle of water. He brings it to his lips greedily, consuming its contents, some of it dribbling down his chin in the rush. He takes a break and then downs the rest of the water.
The walk back is quiet. They don't need to say anything.