[ It was a terrible time to tell him to shut up, but Ivan obliges, letting whatever retort he was going to give die inside him. He wasn't being nice, Till says, and Ivan says nothing. Till punched him in frustration, and Ivan took it because going easy on him was difficult. If someone saw Till beaten up, what would they think of Ivan? Till clearly had friends. There were people that cared about him.
If he did retaliate, what would it have been like? Till was the person who would continue fighting until he couldn't. Blood and sweat would be all over them and splattered all over Ivan's room, but the only one who would be pleased was Till.
Ivan would have preferred to reach out and put his arms around him, or make to feel how delicate his neck was again. How soft his lips were. His hands were small and frail compared to his. He would explore and document everything about him if he could. Not a single drop of blood would be wasted.
In reality, all he really could do was sit there with a blissful expression while he dwelled in the fantasies playing in his mind. Till doesn't have to know why Ivan suddenly had a stupid look in his face. He DID tell him to shut up. ]
[ Ivan opting to fantasize instead of confronting him, in some sense, leaves Till alone. More often than not throughout the entirety of his life, he has been alone. Without a sound, devoid of light. Now this room is silent. His actions receive no feedback. That's not how this should end because no matter what, Ivan has always done what he wants. Till may protest, scream, and push him away, but Ivan is Ivan. He doesn't dare to lift his gaze immediately. Things start to feel awkward. The odd atmosphere evokes a rare thought. Sua is rarely on his mind (usually only an extension of Mizi), but now he is reminded of her alone.
This is weird.
When he finally looks up, catching bliss on Ivan's face, he extends a hand and with his index finger, he pokes the very spot his fist connected with. Treating that place where a bruise should bloom like a switch to shut off whatever daydream may have captured Ivan. He will bring him back to their shared moment. Ivan will return and be a part of Till's reality. He will accept it all, he will take the violence because if they cannot be friends, then they can be that. ]
[ The poke brought him back, his eyes blinking slowly as Till himself came back into his attention. Ivan reaches his hand out, wrapping his gently around Till's smaller one. He doesn't love the sudden sting of pain reminding him of what occurred, but he was willing to move past it. ]
Do you want to sleep in this room?
[ The question had nothing to do with anything they had been talking about. Nor did it have to do with why he was poked, he would guess. It was a question of comfort. Did Till want to sleep in the same space as someone else, or did he want to be by himself? Their rooms were right next to one another, so it didn't matter in the long run. ]
You don't have to. I wanted to offer regardless.
[ That reflexive smile graced his face, that princely aura shining when he didn't want to be 'himself'. Till may have brought him back, but the person who fantasized of having the person they loved was unwanted here. ]
You should also tell me what's wrong. You seem to be high-strung. It's not strange for you to be so reactionary, but you seem more bothered than usual.
[ Dark eyes, once again, attentive and focused on him, means Till can retract his hand. There is no need for him to keep pressing his finger against the spot he struck with a fist. Intent on letting his hand fall to his side, his eyes widen in surprise when his hand is caught in a far too gentle touch. Nothing about this contact is reminiscent of their time at Anakt Garden. Instead, he remembers a warm hand against his cheek, in contrast to the cold downpour, and the frigid adoration from an audience, whose applause was lost to the sound of his heartbeat.
He tugs at his hand impetuously. An impulse that cannot be helped when the mood is sour due to unpredictability. If tranquility is impossible, if they are unable to connect, then he thought to communicate through violence. Ivan's lack of retaliation confounds him.
Till ends up relenting. Letting him keep his grip on his hand. His smaller hand. Reminding him of their difference in stature and physique that had become a burden to Ivan during their scuffles. That reminder fuels his discontent; his expression won't return to a neutral one, which contrasts with Ivan's charming face—the mask of a prince worn for their teachers, their classmates. Who are not here. Then, who is this act for? There is no one else here but him! He hates the calm, measured words. He wants to get away from this!
That also means leaving the single most familiar individual in the entirety of this place. Forget rationalizing that they are neighbors. Returning to his room creates distance. He tears his gaze away from the fake expression without providing an answer, but since he has yet to jerk his hand free, since he hasn't made his way to the door, perhaps a verbal response isn't necessary.
[ The first time Till pulls his hand away, Ivan immediately lets it go. He's done this before, and almost forgot what it was like to hold his hand and have it pull away from him. This time the sky didn't rain around him, not did Mizi linger in the background as a reason for Till to leave him behind. She did, however, exist in his heart as the wall that was erected between them. That wasn't important anymore.
Ivan's eyes remained on Till, watching him and preparing himself for Till's exit. The hand that formerly held Till fell open in his lap instead, Ivan's eyebrows going up. The time continued to pass and even though he was free, Ivan wasn't left alone. He even turns his head to look at the door and then back to Till, making sure that his eyes were working correctly. He remained, and so Ivan continued to smile.
The silence was usually comfortable. They always found themselves descending into a quiet revelry of each other's company. This was almost awkward. Till's face was a mirror of his emotions, an open book to his dislike of Ivan's display and reaction. What Ivan didn't know was why. This face and persona was supposed to be for everyone. The 'nicer' him was more palatable and easier to have a relationship with. It was easy to market and fans loved 'the caring big brother'.
Till was not one of those people. He reacted the same to every facet he wore. It really didn't matter which face he wore. They were all repulsive. Although maybe that was his own thoughts slipping through the cracks.
His expression doesn't fall, continuing to stare up at him and wonder what Till actually was going to do now. Clearly answering was not on the docket. ]
[ 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
If he did retaliate, what would it have been like? Till was the person who would continue fighting until he couldn't. Blood and sweat would be all over them and splattered all over Ivan's room, but the only one who would be pleased was Till.
Ivan would have preferred to reach out and put his arms around him, or make to feel how delicate his neck was again. How soft his lips were. His hands were small and frail compared to his. He would explore and document everything about him if he could. Not a single drop of blood would be wasted.
In reality, all he really could do was sit there with a blissful expression while he dwelled in the fantasies playing in his mind. Till doesn't have to know why Ivan suddenly had a stupid look in his face. He DID tell him to shut up. ]
no subject
This is weird.
When he finally looks up, catching bliss on Ivan's face, he extends a hand and with his index finger, he pokes the very spot his fist connected with. Treating that place where a bruise should bloom like a switch to shut off whatever daydream may have captured Ivan. He will bring him back to their shared moment. Ivan will return and be a part of Till's reality. He will accept it all, he will take the violence because if they cannot be friends, then they can be that. ]
no subject
Do you want to sleep in this room?
[ The question had nothing to do with anything they had been talking about. Nor did it have to do with why he was poked, he would guess. It was a question of comfort. Did Till want to sleep in the same space as someone else, or did he want to be by himself? Their rooms were right next to one another, so it didn't matter in the long run. ]
You don't have to. I wanted to offer regardless.
[ That reflexive smile graced his face, that princely aura shining when he didn't want to be 'himself'. Till may have brought him back, but the person who fantasized of having the person they loved was unwanted here. ]
You should also tell me what's wrong. You seem to be high-strung. It's not strange for you to be so reactionary, but you seem more bothered than usual.
no subject
He tugs at his hand impetuously. An impulse that cannot be helped when the mood is sour due to unpredictability. If tranquility is impossible, if they are unable to connect, then he thought to communicate through violence. Ivan's lack of retaliation confounds him.
Till ends up relenting. Letting him keep his grip on his hand. His smaller hand. Reminding him of their difference in stature and physique that had become a burden to Ivan during their scuffles. That reminder fuels his discontent; his expression won't return to a neutral one, which contrasts with Ivan's charming face—the mask of a prince worn for their teachers, their classmates. Who are not here. Then, who is this act for? There is no one else here but him! He hates the calm, measured words. He wants to get away from this!
That also means leaving the single most familiar individual in the entirety of this place. Forget rationalizing that they are neighbors. Returning to his room creates distance. He tears his gaze away from the fake expression without providing an answer, but since he has yet to jerk his hand free, since he hasn't made his way to the door, perhaps a verbal response isn't necessary.
He is staying. ]
no subject
Ivan's eyes remained on Till, watching him and preparing himself for Till's exit. The hand that formerly held Till fell open in his lap instead, Ivan's eyebrows going up. The time continued to pass and even though he was free, Ivan wasn't left alone. He even turns his head to look at the door and then back to Till, making sure that his eyes were working correctly. He remained, and so Ivan continued to smile.
The silence was usually comfortable. They always found themselves descending into a quiet revelry of each other's company. This was almost awkward. Till's face was a mirror of his emotions, an open book to his dislike of Ivan's display and reaction. What Ivan didn't know was why. This face and persona was supposed to be for everyone. The 'nicer' him was more palatable and easier to have a relationship with. It was easy to market and fans loved 'the caring big brother'.
Till was not one of those people. He reacted the same to every facet he wore. It really didn't matter which face he wore. They were all repulsive. Although maybe that was his own thoughts slipping through the cracks.
His expression doesn't fall, continuing to stare up at him and wonder what Till actually was going to do now. Clearly answering was not on the docket. ]
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. ]