[ Time becomes strange— endless replay. What's stranger, though, is the first time the stars conjure a scene he doesn't recognize.
Till's checked himself in for punishment in one of the isolation chambers. That's hardly new for the more haphazard boy. It's the scrapes on Till's face that Ivan notices are out of place, the fact that they aren't in any configuration he's seen before. He always pays thorough attention to these types of marks on Till, has them memorized. They're wounds, but they're also places he wants to touch, urgently, for reasons he can't explain.
But before giving in, he's always dealt with the devices restraining him first, because they're hurting him and because they're hiding even more bruises he wants to see to.
When Ivan reaches for Till's collar, his fingers sink straight into it, all the way through Till without the other boy stirring. His wrist is shoved into his neck, but all it feels like is empty air. Ivan realizes that he's not inhabiting a moment in history. He's not anywhere in this instant at all. Hours pass, Till facing the door until a silhouetted Segyein arrives to drag the latter away and shut Ivan in the dark, unnoticed.
The second time something happens differently, the stage is covered in smoke, in fire. He's never seen it like this, not even in a dream. A fluctuation in the choking fumes briefly reveals that it's covered in bodies. Were he alive, he still wouldn't be able to feel the heat, because he's plunged into ice upon realizing who one of them belongs to. Ivan falls into the space of the figure already shedding tears for Till. He strains muscles he doesn't have, as if he can somehow move hers forward to find evidence that this isn't exactly what it looks like. Suddenly, she's whirling around, she's calling for help and — it actually comes.
After that, the fabric of reality ceases to act like a flipbook. He's able to follow the men taking Till. He's able to ride in the hull of their getaway vehicle unseen and hunker in the corner of the dingy room where they hook him up to all of the equipment they have. He's able to do all of this, somehow, stubbornly persisting in the present. Long after Till is left well enough alone, a barely breathing husk. Ivan entwines himself with him on the stretcher, weightless as a held breath, waiting for his condition to improve.
To experience the slow return of pallor to his skin is divine.
Although he does not seem to exist, some part of Ivan still feels the familiar impulse pull back at the last second, give Till his space come the first time his eyes reopen. From a measured distance, he watches. He doesn't have to learn to be content with that. The day Till cries out, the first thing Ivan thinks is that something's wrong. He's in a fragile state, after all.
As the doctors scurry to see to him, Ivan steals glimpses between their crowded frames, concerned that the scar tissue keeping things sealed has given out. It gives him boldness, brings him closer, closer, closer, reaching out as if to stop the flow of fitfully-imagined blood himself. ]
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timeasmymeasure
3/3, i give you the gift of tl;dr
Date: 2025-07-02 10:08 pm (UTC)Till's checked himself in for punishment in one of the isolation chambers. That's hardly new for the more haphazard boy. It's the scrapes on Till's face that Ivan notices are out of place, the fact that they aren't in any configuration he's seen before. He always pays thorough attention to these types of marks on Till, has them memorized. They're wounds, but they're also places he wants to touch, urgently, for reasons he can't explain.
But before giving in, he's always dealt with the devices restraining him first, because they're hurting him and because they're hiding even more bruises he wants to see to.
When Ivan reaches for Till's collar, his fingers sink straight into it, all the way through Till without the other boy stirring. His wrist is shoved into his neck, but all it feels like is empty air. Ivan realizes that he's not inhabiting a moment in history. He's not anywhere in this instant at all. Hours pass, Till facing the door until a silhouetted Segyein arrives to drag the latter away and shut Ivan in the dark, unnoticed.
The second time something happens differently, the stage is covered in smoke, in fire. He's never seen it like this, not even in a dream. A fluctuation in the choking fumes briefly reveals that it's covered in bodies. Were he alive, he still wouldn't be able to feel the heat, because he's plunged into ice upon realizing who one of them belongs to. Ivan falls into the space of the figure already shedding tears for Till. He strains muscles he doesn't have, as if he can somehow move hers forward to find evidence that this isn't exactly what it looks like. Suddenly, she's whirling around, she's calling for help and — it actually comes.
After that, the fabric of reality ceases to act like a flipbook. He's able to follow the men taking Till. He's able to ride in the hull of their getaway vehicle unseen and hunker in the corner of the dingy room where they hook him up to all of the equipment they have. He's able to do all of this, somehow, stubbornly persisting in the present. Long after Till is left well enough alone, a barely breathing husk. Ivan entwines himself with him on the stretcher, weightless as a held breath, waiting for his condition to improve.
To experience the slow return of pallor to his skin is divine.
Although he does not seem to exist, some part of Ivan still feels the familiar impulse pull back at the last second, give Till his space come the first time his eyes reopen. From a measured distance, he watches. He doesn't have to learn to be content with that. The day Till cries out, the first thing Ivan thinks is that something's wrong. He's in a fragile state, after all.
As the doctors scurry to see to him, Ivan steals glimpses between their crowded frames, concerned that the scar tissue keeping things sealed has given out. It gives him boldness, brings him closer, closer, closer, reaching out as if to stop the flow of fitfully-imagined blood himself. ]