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It was a nice day outside. Till should be happy; he really should. After a long couple of months of freezing cold, ice storms, and being locked inside his shitty apartment, the weather finally broke. Till’s friend group was able to scrape together the time and money to have a picnic in the park like they were in elementary school again. They threw Hyuna’s vintage, stained quilt over a dry-ish patch of grass by the playground. Mizi and Sua were laughing wildly over a book Ivan had to read for a literature class, something about a woman and an island and a bear and sex. Their joy mixed well with the children on the playground. Till stopped listening after that. Ivan’s face looked pinched like he wanted to make an argument but was refraining. It was a rare show of Ivan being social, yet holding back his own comments for the sake of others.
Till ripped his eyes from the scene. Ivan had done a lot of growing up lately, huh?
After a grueling two weeks of midterms, this was well-deserved. It’s not like they had a lot of time to waste, at this point. They were anywhere between months and weeks away from graduating, and soon, Till would have to start applying for jobs that weren’t in the art department on campus. He should be celebrating his hard work with his friends. He should be making flower crowns and spilling the fizzy champagne in the grass with everyone else.
Instead, he crouched under a tree with his sketchbook, getting acquainted with his charcoal set for the first time in two months. School kills artists, he grimaced, smudging a line the wrong way. He wiped the residue on his jeans and marvelled at the way it looked so much better on the denim than the paper. Maybe he should start making his own clothing, at this point.
None of his art had landed lately. He’d been deep in portrait studies and anatomy lately, and he was deeper in a horrible case of art block. His pieces were so proportional and accurate that they lost their humanity. He balled up another smeared, ruined sketch and stuffed it in the pocket of his jeans. The wind blew just enough to annoyingly rustle the pages of his book. Nobody had checked on him in a while. Even Ivan, the insatiable menace, had taken comfort in somebody else. Till’s heart bunched up around the edges. Since when did Ivan not bother him? Was Till boring now that he had to write papers and spend long nights finishing pieces in the studio instead of constantly talking to him?
Maybe Ivan was just grown up now.
Maybe Ivan had lost that spark that they had when they were kids, back when they would hold hands when they walked across the street, and Till would snap at him for not letting go afterwards. Maybe long days and longer nights spent with classmates in his own major had shaped his brain into a more socially-acceptable shape. Now, maybe Ivan stewed over Hemingway and whatever-the-fuck readings instead of how to make Till pay attention to him. Till had wished for this for his whole life, having Ivan off his back, some peace and quiet.
Till couldn’t help but worry that, somehow, it was all his fault.
Now, watching Ivan lounge with his long limbs spread over the blanket, his face turned away, Till briefly, fleetingly, considered what it would feel like to forget Ivan’s face. The smudge of black hair against gingham baby blue had Till feverish, tearing his sketchpad back open because he couldn’t, he refused to forget how Ivan’s crooked smile lifted up more on the right side to make room for that huge, charming tooth. Maybe it was the college senior crisis finally hitting. Maybe it was the photographer in Till that was desperate to preserve every memory, just in case he forgot. Well, really, when he forgot, because he always did. Every precious moment would leave him eventually, right?
Till scribbled a vague silhouette of a human male, etching in what he remembered. He squeezed his eyes shut and found it surprisingly easy to conjure images of Ivan. Ivan stealing his pencil in middle school and the bark of laughter that echoed off the walls when Till screamed and cried at him for it. Ivan swiping his card for Till’s coffee the time that Till pulled an all-nighter freshman year and walked into the lecture hall miserable, the concerned look that made those dark eyes even darker, and it made Till uncomfortable because they might swallow him whole. Ivan, quiet and contemplating when Till sobbed to him about something, probably rather unimportant, and just sitting there, freakish eyes boring holes into his skull. It all made so much sense. Till couldn’t even fathom forgetting that velvet stare, or that evil smile, or the way his legs crossed but he might , and the fear was so real and tangible that Till was threatening to spill over now, in the grass, hunched over his sketchbook like someone might snatch it away from him. Nothing was right. No line he carved into the paper matched the way that Ivan filled his mind, overwhelming it, the way Ivan felt clunky and misshapen in his mouth.
The world narrowed into the grass beneath his thighs, the scritch of charcoal against the grain. Till had a dream, once, that he sat in the grass all day and waited for something to happen to him. He had felt so lonely, even though it seemed like all eyes were on him. How many people did he have to meet to feel something different? The sun in the sky that night was oddly bright. Yes, Till had known it was night, and yet it was day, and yet it was not. He sat, still, waiting, as people passed him by, whispers of sounds and light brushing past his clothes and his face.
Someone sat behind him, when he least expected it, but he couldn’t turn around to see them. His neck bent towards the ground stiffly. The expanse of grass swam in front of him, all opalescence and heat, and it was like he was crying, but he couldn’t feel a thing. They draped over him, strong, warm, comforting, the weight folding him over until he was falling and he couldn’t stop, crashing into the grass below him. He wailed and kicked out, drowning in his invisible tears and the endless grass, the strength of the person above him holding him down. He couldn’t breathe. It was too much. He was too small to properly fight back. He heaved for air, but the person wouldn’t move. He saw the people passing him still, but their whispers faded into the roaring of his own blood in his ears. Spit flew out of his gaping mouth. His hands reached outwards, grasping, flailing, desperate. For what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t necessarily feel like he was meant to die, but goddammit, he was going to live.
The dream came to him now as he tilted up and ran from his spot under the tree. His friends, startled at his sudden motion, called out to him and raised their hands towards his retreating body. When he turned back, it looked like an offering, he panted, how their hands raised up, towards him, reaching out to stop him, maybe? Till didn’t want to stop. Was he really about to refuse the help from all the hands he longed to take? He was, wasn’t he, because he was never really worthy of them. Going back to being alone, observing, outside of the boundaries of their love and light was the only way to keep him safe and whole. The radiance of the sun was overwhelming. Till focused on the grass beneath him as he scrambled away.
He could hear rapid steps behind him, and Till hated being chased. Who was it this time? Mizi, maybe, to lean on him? She would, but only if he didn’t go too far. She knew what he knew, about her, about them, and they played a silent, distant game of understanding each other without talking. He loved her, as one might love a treasured gift from another. She loved him, as one might love a work in progress.
Sua, she wouldn’t run for him. If she did, though, maybe she would glare at him from afar, long after he stopped, and she would keep her carefully calculated distance. He felt as if he knew Sua through a chain of other obstacles. Sua wasn’t made for him; that was the point. He loved her, as one might love a loved one’s partner. She loved him, as one might love a problem with special potential.
Hyuna might. Hyuna would catch up to him in no time, even with her leg. She might tackle him to the ground and tell him to lighten up. She’d ruffle his hair. She might wipe his tears and carry him back to the group, like he was someone’s poor, lost puppy. He loved her, as one might love a savior. She loved him, as one might love a younger sibling.
Luka? Luka hardly looked his way. Till didn’t blame him; they were on opposite sides of the circle, two sides of very different coins. Luka regarded him with barely veiled disdain. Till ignored Luka and favored spending his energy on other people, anyway. Did he love him? Till wasn't so sure, anymore. Who was he to say what love might be?
The steps were catching up to him. Till was winded, breath ripping in and out of his chest. Of course he wouldn’t beat whoever was behind him. He never really had the potential to be a winner, anyway. His whole life revolved around Till fighting, losing, fighting again. Why must he fight? He really wasn’t a violent man.
There was a flash of darkness in front of him, and then he was falling, the blue of the sky blacked out suddenly. He felt himself tumble, unable to catch his arms on anything, caught in a tangle of limbs and moisture. He ached to reach out to find something, anything, to latch onto. He was flying through the dark and the unknown. The uneven blinks of light he could see reminded him of stars, ones that streak and smear through the sky unapologetically, irreversibly, purposefully marking and staining the blackness with light.
Ivan might run after him. Ivan might not, anymore. Ivan was not the one that chased; at least, to Till, Ivan seemed more prone to hovering. If anything, Ivan made Till chase after him, inciting his anger, sparking the fire just to observe how it burned. Ivan might chase him just to insult him, berate him, breathlessly slide his tongue over words crafted specifically to make Till feel something. Ivan might grab him and haul him back, sling him over his broad shoulders silently. If Till fell, Ivan would crash and burn with him, both of them stacked over each other.
“Come on, Till. Cheer up,” he would say, pulling his hair, and Till, on cue, would let his anger fuel him back into living.
When everything stilled, Till found himself sprawled over Ivan’s very familiar torso. They both strained and groaned at the impact of the fall. Till’s head spun with motion and how Ivan’s body seemed to swallow his whole. Even when falling, Ivan unconsciously curled around him. His hands twitched in Till’s hair and against his side. Till felt the urge to rear up and away, as always, because here Ivan was, taking more from him like he had anything left to give. Till already spent every waking moment memorizing and analyzing, unwinding and further tangling himself with Ivan in a futile effort to understand the man. Dizzy, he sat up, meeting Ivan’s squinty, unfocused gaze.
He didn’t know everything about Ivan, but he did know enough.
Ivan loved him, as one might love oxygen. He needs it to live, and he wants it more as it slips further away from him. He feels the urge to use it, gulp it all down safely inside of him until there isn't any more to consume. His love wasn’t even a question; one doesn’t consciously love the air they breathe. It’s a given. It’s obvious. Ivan wouldn’t exist without having more of Till to breathe in, to breathe out, to burn like a match struck on the edges of a box. It was too much. Till didn’t have any more to give. If he stops giving, they both die, don’t they?
Through the tears, Till sniffled and angled himself further over Ivan to look at his face clearly. The water dripped from his cheeks down to Ivan’s jawline. Ivan’s gaze felt heavier than ever. He couldn’t feel a thing.
“You’re crying,” Ivan noted, infuriatingly blunt. Till’s nails scratched at the dirt beneath them as his lips twisted up. He wanted to fight, but he was too tired. He wasn’t a fighter. He just wanted company.
Instead of replying to the factual statement, Till approached the main topic at hand. “I’m going to forget you, one day,” he whispered, his voice shaky and raw. His forearms trembled with the effort of keeping himself on top of Ivan. He needed to stay in charge. He needed the illusion of taking instead of giving . “I’ll forget you, and there’s nothing I can do but run away.”
“Won’t you?” Cryptically, Ivan tilted his head and smiled up at him. “Run, then. You can. I’d let you.”
Panting for breath, Till stared, awestruck, at Ivan’s compliance. Of course Ivan would let him go so easily. The chase was only the lead-up.
He loved Ivan, as one might love their shadow. Always following, always being followed. Twin sides of the same being, yet only able to touch at certain points. Staring, and moving, the shadow yielding to the curve of one’s body. Ivan was a blank slate, and Till could only truly see him at the end. The end of the day, the end of a year, the end of a conversation. Feeling the uncontrollable urge to sink his fingers into the depths of it, yet being denied.
He loved Ivan because he threatened to consume him.
“What about you?” Till wondered. Ivan’s eyes reflected the stubborn beams of the sun that slipped through. Till wasn’t sure what they were talking about, not anymore, but it was increasingly important that they kept going.
“I’ll stay here.” Ivan shrugged. “I’d want to follow you, but…”
Till stared, silent, the wind fluttering the ends of his hair. Ivan smiled up at him, his hands coming up to thumb away his tears.
Till shook, sputtered, and held on.