That is what Till has kept telling himself since the painful events of that recent dream with Sleep. The difficulty of keeping that promise has been put to the test.
Not because he wanted to run. From the moment he realized Ivan was alive and himself again—as much himself as he could be, in that transformed body—Till had wanted to hold on and never let go. He would give anything, do anything, to keep him alive and at his side.
And yet the very real fear that he is bad for Ivan—unhealthy, dangerous—has lingered in the back of his mind. Ivan had been destroyed, a second time.
Because of him.
Those thoughts keep circling, relentless, even when he tries to shut them out. For the past week, their tether has ached. On some level, Till has believed he deserves it. Whatever pain or rejection or jagged emotion perforated their connection, he accepted it without protest, because he hasn’t felt worthy.
In no world does he believe he could ever be worthy of Ivan’s love, no matter how fiercely he craves it.
The thoughts are still there, but compared to the last few days, a new fear has risen up and taken hold: the inexplicable terror that Ivan might leave him.
Absolutely fucking ridiculous. Till knows that, and despite that, all he wants is to cling close. He hates it when Ivan disappears, even for a little while.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And yet, here he is. Ivan is inside their shared room, and Till lingers in the hall, face flushed as he paces back and forth.
Come on. Just go inside. This isn’t embarrassing.
It is embarrassing. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but Till isn’t good at this kind of thing on the best of days. He’s got a little book clutched in both hands, fingers digging into the worn cover. He’d found it—found a lot of material like it—while raiding an abandoned apartment, and the content inside had… left him thinking about quite a number of things that weren’t easy to put into words.
Finally, at last, he raps his knuckles against the door and steps into their cozy yet spacious room.
Hey—
[What an awkward start. He sends the word along their converged tether instead of voicing it aloud. He hasn’t had much desire to physically speak lately. It’s easier to talk like this. Safer. Emotionally. Mentally.]
[ Ivan has nothing in his arms. And he hates that.
It's been too long since he's been able to hold Till without feeling like his very presence was cutting into him. Keeping away is not what he wants at all, but it's necessary, is it not? He can only hurt him so much before he starts to think that it's just selfish to even try to endure. Hunting is his convenient excuse to be somewhere else, always crucial to them all surviving.
That's not what he's doing now, of course, in their room all alone. Till's suspicions are correct, though the resting is not itself restful. His now-natural glow glints off of Ivan's jet black exoskeleton, highlighting exactly where he is in the inner darkness. It reveals an enormous, tight spiral in the dead center of the carpeting, because that's the only place he has room to be in such a pose. His body is wound around and around itself, his just-barely human head and shoulders eclipsed by the endless extra legs he's using to hug himself. He's gotten so used to being near someone in his sleep, this is all he can do to stifle the awful awareness that he isn't.
The voice that slips inside his head is more soothing than any of that. Still, mixed with the sudden rush of relief, there is a sense of alarm. he's not sure that it's safe yet... for Till to approach.
Then he cracks an eye open, finding himself already looking at him. ]
No.
[ Stated firmly, Ivan immediately beginning to stir, squirm, rise from his creature-esque contortion toward the doorframe with a restless neediness he's been saving up and up and up. Whether it's going to sting when he touches him, he just can't help himself. ]
I'm not resting anymore, now that you're here. I want to do what you want to do.
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April - Week 3
That is what Till has kept telling himself since the painful events of that recent dream with Sleep. The difficulty of keeping that promise has been put to the test.
Not because he wanted to run. From the moment he realized Ivan was alive and himself again—as much himself as he could be, in that transformed body—Till had wanted to hold on and never let go. He would give anything, do anything, to keep him alive and at his side.
And yet the very real fear that he is bad for Ivan—unhealthy, dangerous—has lingered in the back of his mind. Ivan had been destroyed, a second time.
Because of him.
Those thoughts keep circling, relentless, even when he tries to shut them out. For the past week, their tether has ached. On some level, Till has believed he deserves it. Whatever pain or rejection or jagged emotion perforated their connection, he accepted it without protest, because he hasn’t felt worthy.
In no world does he believe he could ever be worthy of Ivan’s love, no matter how fiercely he craves it.
The thoughts are still there, but compared to the last few days, a new fear has risen up and taken hold: the inexplicable terror that Ivan might leave him.
Absolutely fucking ridiculous. Till knows that, and despite that, all he wants is to cling close. He hates it when Ivan disappears, even for a little while.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And yet, here he is. Ivan is inside their shared room, and Till lingers in the hall, face flushed as he paces back and forth.
Come on. Just go inside. This isn’t embarrassing.
It is embarrassing. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but Till isn’t good at this kind of thing on the best of days. He’s got a little book clutched in both hands, fingers digging into the worn cover. He’d found it—found a lot of material like it—while raiding an abandoned apartment, and the content inside had… left him thinking about quite a number of things that weren’t easy to put into words.
Finally, at last, he raps his knuckles against the door and steps into their cozy yet spacious room.
Hey—
[What an awkward start. He sends the word along their converged tether instead of voicing it aloud. He hasn’t had much desire to physically speak lately. It’s easier to talk like this. Safer. Emotionally. Mentally.]
You resting?
no subject
It's been too long since he's been able to hold Till without feeling like his very presence was cutting into him. Keeping away is not what he wants at all, but it's necessary, is it not? He can only hurt him so much before he starts to think that it's just selfish to even try to endure. Hunting is his convenient excuse to be somewhere else, always crucial to them all surviving.
That's not what he's doing now, of course, in their room all alone. Till's suspicions are correct, though the resting is not itself restful. His now-natural glow glints off of Ivan's jet black exoskeleton, highlighting exactly where he is in the inner darkness. It reveals an enormous, tight spiral in the dead center of the carpeting, because that's the only place he has room to be in such a pose. His body is wound around and around itself, his just-barely human head and shoulders eclipsed by the endless extra legs he's using to hug himself. He's gotten so used to being near someone in his sleep, this is all he can do to stifle the awful awareness that he isn't.
The voice that slips inside his head is more soothing than any of that. Still, mixed with the sudden rush of relief, there is a sense of alarm. he's not sure that it's safe yet... for Till to approach.
Then he cracks an eye open, finding himself already looking at him. ]
No.
[ Stated firmly, Ivan immediately beginning to stir, squirm, rise from his creature-esque contortion toward the doorframe with a restless neediness he's been saving up and up and up. Whether it's going to sting when he touches him, he just can't help himself. ]
I'm not resting anymore, now that you're here. I want to do what you want to do.