[ Till's longed-for unwavering gaze is on Ivan alone. Only a blink breaks eye contact. Otherwise, it remains steady. Without a word, he observes the practiced mask of a celebrated idol. If Ivan had not been a constant thorn at his side, perhaps he, too, would be a fool. He knows better. He doesn't know everything. It's enough to incense him, embitter him. Does Ivan think he is stupid? That he is like their teachers, their classmates. Till won't be enchanted by fabricated princely charm. As much as what is real about Ivan frustrates him, that's what he would choose. He would choose to touch the surface of that person.
Suppose he goes further, if he peels the layers. The thought alone makes his heart race as a warning—the outcome: Agony. Yet he cannot keep quiet for long. He hasn't kept track of time. How long have they been staring at each other? Wetting his lips, he begins to speak. ]
I hate—
[ His voice dies down, grows quiet, and he doesn't say anymore. No matter what words he uses to express himself, no matter how he rearranges any sentiment, or the method he uses to convey it, he feels unheard and misunderstood. But he cannot expect to receive comprehension when he cannot offer the same to Ivan; he doesn't get him. Whatever this is, it's disjointed and skewed. They are two parts that cannot fit.
He hates it.
That's what it is. That's what he hates. There is no misdirection. Yet there is only one person in this room who should remain unloved. Disliked. There is nothing to be found; it's empty. Constantly needing to be rebuilt.
What can he offer?
Artistic passions mean little, right? Musical talent is nothing here. There is no bastard segyein keeping him alive for that sole reason.
Bringing an arm around himself, he turns away as if shielding himself from a criticizing gaze. His nails begin to dig into his skin. Anxiety is strange; it's familiar enough that he recognizes and immediately disregards the sensation, no matter how his body reacts. It's suffocating, but he is willing to drown here. ]
I'll sleep over there! [ A swift motion is made indicating a spot on the far side of the room. That said, he creates physical distance, ready to do as he said and sleep on the floor of Ivan's room. ]
[ Ivan's head turned, looking at the spot Till pointed out. Acknowledging this, Ivan nods and keeps quiet.
That was it.
Till had turned away, separating the connection their locked gazes formerly held. It was over. They had an agreement. While it wasn't the one Ivan would have preferred, he wasn't going to correct it. He could see Till's spot from the bed, so it would be fine.
The unfinished statement hung in his mind. Till hated. What part of him did Till detest now? Ivan couldn't really comprehend it, closing his eyes to let the moment pass. ]
If you need more blankets or cushions, tell me. And if you want to share the bed...
[ Ivan just smiled again, still wearing that smile suggestively, even if he already knew Till was never going to do something like that. ]
[ A few steps is all it takes to get to the spot he pointed out to Ivan, his hand is up in the air dismissing Ivan's offers. He does not need blankets or cushions. His former room was always stripped of comforts. All he ever had was his writing, his drawings, and the few gifts he managed to preserve (if allowed). The bare floor is fine. Sharing the bed is out of the question. It would defeat the purpose. Till believes that, try as he might, he would not be able to sleep. The truth is, he is questioning whether he can sleep here at all.
Nevertheless, he does not head toward the door. He remains in Ivan's room. He settles down on the floor, turning on his side and giving his back to Ivan. Whatever conversation they could have, should have, won't come tonight. He won't sleep, of course, he doesn't bother closing his eyes. He knows all he will do is focus on any minute sound in this room, even if it means just trying to pick up the sound of Ivan's breathing. He isn't alone. He doesn't have to be. He is here. Sleeping in Ivan's room, which, comparatively speaking, is much easier due to familiarity than anything else required of him. It's comfortable. That's a realization that hits him.
He remains quiet. While he may not be able to fall asleep, he won't disturb Ivan's rest. ]
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no subject
Suppose he goes further, if he peels the layers. The thought alone makes his heart race as a warning—the outcome: Agony. Yet he cannot keep quiet for long. He hasn't kept track of time. How long have they been staring at each other? Wetting his lips, he begins to speak. ]
I hate—
[ His voice dies down, grows quiet, and he doesn't say anymore. No matter what words he uses to express himself, no matter how he rearranges any sentiment, or the method he uses to convey it, he feels unheard and misunderstood. But he cannot expect to receive comprehension when he cannot offer the same to Ivan; he doesn't get him. Whatever this is, it's disjointed and skewed. They are two parts that cannot fit.
He hates it.
That's what it is. That's what he hates. There is no misdirection. Yet there is only one person in this room who should remain unloved. Disliked. There is nothing to be found; it's empty. Constantly needing to be rebuilt.
What can he offer?
Artistic passions mean little, right? Musical talent is nothing here. There is no bastard segyein keeping him alive for that sole reason.
Bringing an arm around himself, he turns away as if shielding himself from a criticizing gaze. His nails begin to dig into his skin. Anxiety is strange; it's familiar enough that he recognizes and immediately disregards the sensation, no matter how his body reacts. It's suffocating, but he is willing to drown here. ]
I'll sleep over there! [ A swift motion is made indicating a spot on the far side of the room. That said, he creates physical distance, ready to do as he said and sleep on the floor of Ivan's room. ]
no subject
That was it.
Till had turned away, separating the connection their locked gazes formerly held. It was over. They had an agreement. While it wasn't the one Ivan would have preferred, he wasn't going to correct it. He could see Till's spot from the bed, so it would be fine.
The unfinished statement hung in his mind. Till hated. What part of him did Till detest now? Ivan couldn't really comprehend it, closing his eyes to let the moment pass. ]
If you need more blankets or cushions, tell me. And if you want to share the bed...
[ Ivan just smiled again, still wearing that smile suggestively, even if he already knew Till was never going to do something like that. ]
no subject
Nevertheless, he does not head toward the door. He remains in Ivan's room. He settles down on the floor, turning on his side and giving his back to Ivan. Whatever conversation they could have, should have, won't come tonight. He won't sleep, of course, he doesn't bother closing his eyes. He knows all he will do is focus on any minute sound in this room, even if it means just trying to pick up the sound of Ivan's breathing. He isn't alone. He doesn't have to be. He is here. Sleeping in Ivan's room, which, comparatively speaking, is much easier due to familiarity than anything else required of him. It's comfortable. That's a realization that hits him.
He remains quiet. While he may not be able to fall asleep, he won't disturb Ivan's rest. ]