Work Text:
Ivan is a taciturn child who smiles like one of those actor kids on television when he notices eyes on him.
A natural pleaser, his parents’ friends often comment, with how calm and poised he appears compared to their rowdy children – a compliment that pleases his father and makes contentment bloom on his mother’s face, though it doesn’t always reach her eyes. They are an exact copy of Ivan’s, but imbued with life, vibrant, an exotic dark grey that does not swallow her more genuine gazes, does not coat the lines and curves of her expressions with an unrippled, opaque veil.
Inherently observant, Ivan can tell. Her smiles are stitched onto her face like delicate embroidery – beautiful, but artificial.
“I never know what he is thinking,” Ivan hears her mother whisper one evening, spying his parents in the kitchen after dinner. She must have noticed Ivan’s worn-out soul hiding within this new shell she gave birth to, so similar to the one he used to carry around in another life. She probably knows he is a fraud, an error of nature, a small miscalculation in the grand scheme of the universe.
It’s sad that this lovely couple, wallowing in richness and with a seemingly ordinary moral code, is now stuck with Ivan as their son. In this world, disposing of a small life is not easy, apparently – maybe can’t be done at will like in the slums Ivan remembers from his first childhood. Parents desire their children and keep them in their refuges, sometimes have more than one – feed them, clothe them, accompany them through various stages of life until they become independent.
This piece of knowledge makes something unbridled mount within him, but just like the first time, emotions are vastly elusive to Ivan’s logical abilities. So he analyses this new, colourful world inhabited by real humans in the only way he knows how to study things he can’t immediately approach with eyes and reason – by reading.
Books on this earth are much richer and varied in information, and come in different genres. They are also incredibly sillier, and make a good company when Ivan doesn’t have to attend afternoon piano lessons and swimming practice – during which he watches the other children laugh and stumble, their bodies clumsy with youth, and wonders what it's like, to be so unaware, so unbroken.
More than that, books take his mind off the face that populates his dreams, off the magnetic pull his little mind can’t wrap around or explain – off the eyes like the line that separates sky and ocean, an impossible colour Ivan has never seen, yet dreams of every night. Someone he strongly believes to be alive in this world, because if an imperfect existence like Ivan got to live again, it’s a given the other boy obtained a similar gift.
A name, Till.
Sometimes he thinks it must have been the first word he uttered when his vocal cords learned how to vibrate and produce sounds. He can’t ask his mother, though, she’d look at him with suspicion given how rare it is for Ivan to inquire about this sort of thing, or about anything, really. He handles his curiosity responsibly, without pestering for answers he can find on his own, even when he starts to understand that that probably makes him weirder, in human terms.
Earth without aliens is confusing. Don’t parents grow their children to adulthood wishing for them to reach self-sufficiency? Is it that bad that Ivan already possesses it – that his thoughts are consumed by remote events that age his childish features and render his eyes bottomless?
His small, dependent body is so impractical… He hopes to grow out of it soon.
Real humans are inquisitive, lively and sociable. Ivan learned part of it in the garden by witnessing the many differences between him and the other kids, but he didn’t know it applied to early childhood as well, since his only frame of reference are hazy memories of dark alleys, a rumbling stomach, warm fires sparked by random rocks and scraped little fingers. No wonder his parents thought he was apathetic and weird and needed psychological support.
He removes the more intense edges of his personality with practised ease – but gradually, to acclimate them to the change, and opens up more. The pretence flows, his parents smile more and all in all, life is good.
Time places an unusual warmth in his chest, flourishing when the gentle smile of his mother compliments his achievements or when his father pats him on the back with proud words – it tastes better than the good marks he received in the garden, even sweeter than the high grades he collects in the human educational system now. It’s new and confusing, stemming partly from crafted acts, but mostly peaceful.
It’s more than Ivan deserves.
Highschool comes in the form of impeccable academic results, juvenile distractions and reckless abandon.
Somehow, just like in his first life, he attracts the eyes of his peers and older students alike, his playful, captivating personality an act honed for two lives, flawless in its charm. They seem attracted by his elegant, mature ways, which Ivan learns to drizzle with sillier acts when he notices they earn him more laughter, more consensus. And more information through experiences unexplored before.
Ivan follows home some of his seniors, female and male alike, warms their bed and his flesh and bones, finding momentary respite in the mechanical, liberating act of sex.
His soul, though – together with the times he rewards himself with the chasing of his own orgasm when he is alone - are always for Till. He’d never indulge in thoughts of the passionate boy when he has company, feeling as if those people might pry his skull open and see the Till in his fantasies, so precious to him, yet at the mercy of Ivan’s most violent and carnal imaginary. So, he only lets others imprint his body with their touch when he most wants to forget, hollow hours dedicated to the whims of his vessel and the need to escape.
Then he goes back home. It’s cold and absence that welcome him once more, and Ivan wonders – is his soul destined to drift on every plane of existence, lone and lost, devoid of substance? Is Ivan nothing more than this?
The answer seems easy. After all, who would want someone who takes his own life after leading a non-existent existence? Even his guardian considered him a low-risk low-profit product. His behaviour was flawless, yet in his perfection laid the root of his lack of value. Ivan was nothing more than dirt clad in a crystal bottle and called magical powder, like those contemporary works of art, incomprehensible to most and brilliant in the eyes of few selected experts.
Maybe, somewhere in this world, the only person able to see him, to light him up, will appear. Or maybe, despite his belief, that person still stands dead, lost in the coils and curls of images long buried in dreams.
The empty spot beside him, the lack of angry shouts and the few scratches Till could land on him is what keeps Ivan awake at night, pained and doubled over, heaving wheezily as he clutches his chest with quivering fingers.
Till’s absence is physical, penetrates his flesh like bullets – and Ivan knows what he is talking about. He should hate that, the way the thought of the boy who seldom met his gaze for more than a few seconds at time occupies his mind in such an intolerable way. But truly, he can blame no one other than himself.
Ivan made Till his anchor. If living without him causes Ivan pain, is there anyone he can fault but himself? If Till was nothing more than his tormentor, who weakened his hold when Ivan’s hands squeezed Till’s neck? Ivan did – for there would have been no liberation in Till’s death, just like there is no peace in Till’s absence.
The truth is that Ivan can be a functioning person, yet never human enough to be seen as such. It makes sense. After achieving a somewhat normal existence, the only thing making him teeter toward insanity is Till – always Till. He is also the only one making him feel alive.
Dramatically anticlimactic, but reasonable.
Ivan is almost seventeen when the first tints of teal creep into his life.
It’s winter, cold seeping through the corridors despite the heating system being on, and he is scrolling around YouTube looking for new talents. There are many young and incredible pianists posting their covers. His private teacher often recommends him to listen to fellow musicians to expose himself to new styles and maybe finally build his own, given how… impersonal and mimicking Ivan’s is – faithful to the score, never straying, never experimenting.
He enjoys piano, violin and guitar covers alike, finds them inspirational when he doesn’t lose himself in things that are not there.
Ivan has a history test after the break, but all thoughts about Europe revolutions and colonies fly from his head the moment a familiar voice rings in his ears, slicing through Ivan like a blade warmed by memory. He stops in his tracks, under the shade of a tree in the school courtyard, and stares transfixed at the small, flimsy screen of his phone.
For the first time in this life, he fails a test.
He makes sure to buy the best headphones he can with the money his parents allowed him to have and that he seldom uses, and makes of Till’s voice the means to ward off his solitude – even when Till himself is the ultimate cause of the black hole swallowing his thoughts.
Ivan chases them with Till’s songs blasting in his ears, sliding in his ergonomic chair as his eyes dance on the moving image of the boy playing the guitar, voice as scratchy and warm as in his preserved memories – palm wrapped around his aching arousal in chafed strokes that heat him up and hurt and itch when sweat and the first oozing drops of his unsatisfactory release make the slide more comfortable.
The best orgasms hit him only when the taste of guilt and regret is far from his mouth, casting no shadow on his heart, and it’s almost like Till is there with him – impossibly touching him, staring at him, chanting tunes that mock Ivan and arouse him through his crescendo, a storm of sensations that wash over his body, leaving it quaking as though it had been touched by fire.
The precious apparition of Till becomes nothing more than a cheap porn video Ivan masturbates to in lonely night and frustrating afternoons, messages from his occasional girlfriends, boyfriends or hookups forgotten in the searing warmth of his hands and fantasies, stirred in the wake of the angelic voice of his personal demon.
It earns him a punch in the face, and he cradles his jaw with a frown as the boy he didn’t even break up with sobs not too far away, someone who shows the protectiveness of an older sibling seething in front of Ivan and calling him names. He accuses him of breaking his little brother’s heart, of not answering his messages, and demands Ivan do something about it, but Ivan doesn’t feel much beside the confusion stemming from an unfortunate misunderstanding.
“He wasn’t my boyfriend. I never made promises.”
“How the fuck can you be so insensitive? You should lock yourself into a hole and die alone,” comes the angry vent, wet sobs a crescendo in the background. Ivan clutches his headphones distractedly and perks at that, wondering if the senior will really beat him up on school grounds, but when he lunges forward, it’s easy for Ivan to stop the punch directed his way. It’d be a hassle to explain to his nanny at home, and she’d probably tell his parents, who would chide him worriedly and investigate further.
“You worry too much,” Ivan retorts, lips quirking into a half-smile. “I’m fine. Just bored.”
After that, it’s natural to go back to his world, to the enclosed space where it’s only him and the voice he can’t get out of his head. In his little universe, Ivan yearns with dreams and failing lungs and fake smiles, and hopes he’ll never meet Till. Hopes to live with the knowledge of Till being happy far from him. Knows he will shine the brightest like that, and Ivan will bask in that light like he did in the past, freely and enamoured.
Graduation comes granted, one warm morning of June. It’s the only time Ivan put his headphones aside, strolling around the courtyard to take photos and smile one last time with his classmates, bowing politely to the teachers.
To whoever asks him about his future, he graciously informs about his plans to attend the Finance course at his local university – though he’ll probably steer a bit far from his parents’ expectations and follow the literary path as minor. Nothing he can’t do.
What’s unexpected is the familiar mop of blonde hair in front of him when Ivan is summoned in the student council room, on the second week on campus. He stops on the threshold, palm clenching on the handle.
“Ivan, right? I think we haven’t had the pleasure, yet. Come in.”
Ivan clutches his headphones, then schools his expression in pleasantries and does as he is asked.
Luka is identical to the many posters of him Ivan saw in the past, a copy of the guy who took the stage with Mizi and ended up on the ground with bruises all over his delicate features. The indifferent air he wears like an elegant performance-outfit does not dilute the sharp spark his pale eyes scan him with, and Ivan recognizes him for who he is – a returned, just like him.
Beside him, a tall brunette huffs, hitting his shoulder with her elbow. “Just ask him, Luka. You are freaking him out.”
“I don’t think so,” Luke replies, fingers intertwined under his chin, the same moment Ivan smiles pleasantly and says, “Not at all.”
The girl blinks, then rolls her eyes. “Oh god, that was creepy. What are you, twins?” She advances jutting her hip with a commandant attitude that immediately sets Ivan off. “Let’s cut to the chase. Do you remember the aliens?”
Ivan blinks, eyes comically wide for a moment, then schools his expression back to wariness. So she was there as well. A memory resurfaces in response – wanted posters, black and green capes, a name starting with H. He nods.
“See? It wasn’t that bad.”
“Hyuna.”
“If he wants to punch you, better sooner than later.”
“Why would I want to punch you?” But the thought comes like lightning a moment later – Ivan’s composure temporarily compromised by the unexpected meeting that he blurts those words out before he can ponder over a more controlled retort.
“Your boyfriend lost to me.”
It’s strange that the news is delivered so quickly. Luka doesn’t look like someone who knows how to be direct with his affairs – but perhaps Ivan confuses him with the shadow of the person he had been and Ivan heard off, with what he witnessed on stage. Even Hyuna, next to him, observes him a little too long to be casual.
Ivan doesn’t dwell. It’s dangerous, because he feels like he might either attack someone who is basically a stranger or stand there unmoving until the storm brimming within him quiets to nothing. The logic of the stage was cruel, kill or die, but none of that matters before the person who supposedly caused Till’s death.
Ivan hates him, viscerally.
A sigh, then Luka stands up, cautiously drawing nearer and stopping far enough that Ivan wouldn’t be able to reach him if he suddenly hurled his arm toward him. “You look like a depressed kid. You’ll be my secretary in the student council this year, see if you like whipping other kids into doing what you want. Well, what I want. University can be fun if you are clever.”
Hyuna sneers. “Spoken like a true dictator. I should kill you, Luka.”
“There are law-driven prisons for that, Hyuna.”
The protest lingering on the tip of his tongue recedes. Despite the rage, something compels him to stay, to accept the proposal and exchange numbers with them, to allow them in his life. He understands what it is months later, after spending enough time with Luka to comprehend what hides behind the little quirks in his behaviour. They are similar in that regard, and somehow, Luka achieved a calmness, a resigned adult normalness that Ivan feels far away from him. He wants that. So he stays.
Polishing an old song for the campus festival seems like a good idea, self-centred and snobbish in how it’s one of his originals from long ago, probably the worst yet most personal one. But he figures it’ll work well on the current public of youngsters, catering to a taste that envisions singers as mysterious and dark, a bit tormented, artfully indifferent.
He is right – Hyuna’s assistant, Hailee, chants praises over praises when she meets him with an enthusiastic shake of hands, and for a moment he lets her do it because of her uncanny resemblance to an equally energetic girl with pink hair, who illuminated the gaze of the boy his black eyes never strayed from, freezes him in place.
They become friends. Ivan wonders if he can feel more human with someone similar to Mizi by his side, but that only seems to work for Till – who was already the most human of them all. Perhaps it was selfish of the younger boy to keep the reason behind his humanity to himself, never sharing it with Ivan, who devoted time and dreams to him with the dedication of a saint toward his god.
It had taken Ivan so long to understand, only to find out that the particular empathy needed to achieve that humanity was something Ivan simply naturally lacked. Something only Till could inspire in him, something he had felt only with his fits bruising the boy’s skin, with teal eyes alight with tears Ivan put there, with a rage so vibrant, so searing – Ivan wanted both to bridle it and set it free, see how far it goes, hopelessly hoping it’d come back like a boomerang and invest him, never forgetting it was Ivan who generated it in Till.
A pathetic way to make himself essential to Till, yet it’s all Till has ever given him. It’d be all he’d give Ivan now, if they were to meet. The prospect elates him, terrifies him. Makes him feel like a thief ready to rob a jewellery, or a starved, desperate man in front of a succulent meal. This greed is boundless, ends into the void, gives him no lasting satisfaction. He tells himself to fill his head with Till’s voice and holds back from checking Till’s location, knowing that if he does, it will mean he never truly let go.
Ivan leaves the stage area and wears his headphones again, looking for peace, but it doesn’t come to him.
Fate has a strange way to show its cards. Books make it seem romantic, but the undertones are those of a comedy leading toward an inevitable finale – a tragic ending, perhaps.
It’s the first Friday of September, and the student council room is brimming with unsuppressed energy. The beginning of the new academic year tends to be overwhelming, with lists of activities and budgets to plan, write, present and archive before all the students roll in and lessons commence.
As vice president, most of the troublesome tasks fall on his responsible, unfortunately-involved-for-the-second-year-in-a-row shoulders, and that’s why he is sitting before the computer, filling files above files in place of his colleagues. It’s monotonous, but it gets the day going and occupies the hours Ivan would otherwise spend gazing at nothing or watching old movies in their university rundown theatre, for gentle concession of the old lady guarding the place.
The door bursts open and Hailee dashes in, all smiles and long hair caught in her light scarf. “Vice president!”
“I’m not here.”
“Hailee,” comes Ray to his rescue, raising his head from a little pile of papers. “Don’t bother him, we have documents to handle before the day is over. What’s the matter?”
Ivan tunes them out, focusing on getting his work done while thinking about dinner. Does he have any leftovers from the weekend? He is quite sure there is some pasta from yesterday, and he can put some more things together from his well-stocked kitchen, so if he saves the last few documents and hands everything in time, he’ll have the whole evening to himself.
“Are you planning to scare the freshmen away already?”
“I’ll just… stalk them a bit as they arrive.”
“Not everyone wants to participate in extra activities right after entering university.”
“I don’t care. This one won awards, too. He is mine!” She slaps her touchpad on the pile of documents Ivan is working on, next to the keyboard, to which he doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Ivan! We need new voices for the festival, so I need your vice-president permission to very friendly contact these freshmen in the name of our council.”
“We can wait for Hyuna” She is the one taking care of art-related activities, after all.
“But our president won’t come back before December! And I want to take care of it now!” she insists, and Ivan doesn’t need to look at her to know her amber-green doe-like eyes are wide and pleading behind her glasses, shining with hope and manipulation, the way it ever so rarely works on him. “It’s the welcoming day for the freshmen in the music department, I want to win them over before they are dragged away by duties and excessive stress!”
Ivan tilts his head and opens his mouth, eyeing her touchpad just to pacify her, and feels the air from his lungs rush out.
Her words flood his brain, and the next thing he knows, Ivan finds himself among waves of freshmen before he can perceive his body move. They have all gathered in the main courtyard for orientation, the air filled with laughter, nervous chatter, and the scent of late-summer grass still warmed by the sun.
It takes a long time, but when Ivan sees him, the whole world restricts to the space where Till is walking, the terrain he is stepping on, the air he is breathing, the clothes and accessories he is wearing.
Before him stands the physical evidence of all Ivan has ever coveted, yearned for. Enchanted, something violent churns in his ribcage, not dormant anymore. He sees himself reach out, palm on the side of Till’s neck, gripping to never let go again, imagination running wild with possibilities.
He suppresses them all by pretending this is not what he has been waiting for with bated breath – hides swiftly from sight, behind a tree, when Till seems to turn in his direction. When was the last time he felt his body sing and shiver so intensely, his own core shake, his mind numb to any logic?
Till has been his most delicious torment for the better part of two lives – so it’s only natural that the first thing Ivan’s mouth offers automatically is a means to piss Till off.
He is there, preventing a wobbling body with no head in sight from falling ruinously down the stairs, doing his good action for the day before caging himself in the council room to take care of his and Luka’s workload, and then his arms are full of Till.
It’s sudden and he is unprepared, and he has to physically tear his fingers away, something akin to pain pulsing in his veins, to avoid appearing as a psychopath.
“Ivan?”
And oh, his name is almost beautiful on his lips, like his songs, Till’s voice so much more everything in person that it steals oxygen right from Ivan’s lungs. The corridor they stand on overflows with light, sun sharp and warm outside cutting through the windows like blades of fire, making Ivan feel like he is basking in it for the first time.
Rays paint golden streaks across Till’s hair and shoulders sharpening every edge like a memory that never dulled, and Ivan’s brain takes a while to wire itself back to a functioning organ. He feels his lips stretch and his face relax in response to the stress, façade perfectly in place. “Do I know you?”
Ivan’s lies are sweet only when it comes to Till. It should have been the end of it – giving Till the perfect excuse to wallow in his anger and ignore him, finally freed from Ivan’s presence, the ghost of an illusory bond buried in the past now scattered by the wind.
Instead.
"That can’t be.”
“It… can’t be?” Ivan’s heart is hammering, wild evilness swamping his blood in venom.
“No. No, you… How can you not remember? Do you think it’s funny?!”
Suppressing a grin takes every ounce of Ivan’s self-control. Let it be known that Ivan restrained himself from doing what destiny did for him – put Till on his path. This world has other plans, and for once, Ivan is happy to make himself pliant and oblige, loyal to the only truth he has never turned his back to.
Till will always be the reason Ivan loses with a smile on his lips.