Work Text:
Ivan’s been observing him for a while now.
Those scrawny fingers thread through the tangle of stems and blooms, uncaring of the occasional pricks, determined to tame the ruthless vines. He keeps weaving in vibrant flowers, careful not to bruise a single delicate petal, coaxing a crown full of life into being. He's not nimble, nor is he swift in his craft– yet Ivan could tell each crown had his heart stitched into it, each having a different story to tell, all of them brimming with life.
The red flowers from Anakt Garden are anything but natural, the artificially grown plant serving as mere decoration to beautify the ambience of the caged human pets. A hollow reassurance, a poor imitation of nature. Yet, those fingers managed to transform something so synthetic into his own attributes, as if he'd cast a spell and lifted the veil of artifice.
Ivan sometimes wonder how is Till capable of threading life into a dead carcass. At least, that's what the flowers should've been, having plucked from the soil mercilessly by the gentlest hands in the world.
The same hands that killed it can also create life out of it. And now, the flower crowns weaved by Till, are anything but dull.
How strange. Is it normal for a dead plant to be so lively once it's transformed into something else?
“One for Mizi, one for Sua, one for Acorn…” Aware of Ivan’s intense and constant staring, Till brushes it off and counts the pile of flower crowns he had made, murmuring to himself as he drifts into his thoughts. He had been making them for at least four hours, so much so his fingertips were red– and Ivan hadn't interrupted him at all. He merely watched silently, observing his every move. At first, Till thought it was unsettling, but he gradually conditioned himself into accepting it.
Ivan's a weirdo– and it's fine, because Till isn’t far off himself. As much as he hates to admit, he enjoys Ivan’s company as much as he despises Ivan creeping up onto him. He just doesn't understand why Ivan likes following him. What makes him so special from the rest?
Ivan on the other hand, doesn’t mind the awkward tension, rather, he relishes it. It brings some sort of comfort, and he hums a tune, low and aimless, drifting in their mutual silence.
“Oh, and also one for you.” Till coughs, a demand for Ivan’s attention, as he shoves the flower crown into Ivan’s hands. Though the delivery was brute, clumsy even, Ivan could tell Till was trying his best to show his appreciation. His face is painted crimson, just like the flowers, and Ivan thinks that just give it a moment and Till will be ripe enough to harvest.
“A flower crown for me…?” Surprised, there was a momentary pause on Ivan’s behalf before he could fully appreciate that Till in fact, thought about him, when making the flower crown. He’s not left out in Till’s creation.
“Duh. Who else?” Till rolls his eyes at the nonsensical response, but nevertheless wears a satisfied smirk. He definitely impressed Ivan for real, now that bastard would stop making fun of him.
That’s strange– usually, Ivan would have to cling onto Till, childishly demanding and annoying Till so much so the teal-haired boy gives in to Ivan’s demands for him to shut up. Rather than properly thanking Till, Ivan finds himself spinning the ring of flowers between his fingers, watching as petals tear loose and flutter to the ground, a crown stripped to bare vines and stems. So fragile – Ivan thought in awe, using his feet to crumple the delicate petal, tainting the grassy fields with specks of red.
“Hey! Don't do that!” Till scoffs, the loud pitch of his screams making Ivan halt, and the raven winces from the voice ringing in his ears. But Ivan is still holding onto the damned crown, even though there's barely any petals remaining– Till sighs, and inhales a deep breath to calm himself down forcefully. He doesn't have time to entertain him. “Whatever. I need to give these to the rest. See you soon.” In annoyance, Till picks up the pile of flower crowns clumsily, almost tripping over from his abrupt movements, nevertheless that didn't stop him from sprinting away from Ivan’s direction, Ivan could still hear his loud ‘hmph!’. As if spending another minute with him will have his soul sucked dry and life withdrawn out of them, leaving a hollow gape in his chest.
Ivan’s left alone again.
He seeks shelter beneath the canopy of a tree, the filtered sunlight lightly caresses his head, as if to comfort him from his failed attempt to provoke a reaction out of Till. Only once he's basking in the shade, fully engulfed by the shadow, can Ivan finally examine the flower crown. More accurately, a lifeless, dull artifact. Its rough texture nearly scarred his palms, a reminder of how Ivan had cruelly handled it. Tracing his fingers around the delicate vines, Ivan wonders how much more it would erode as time passes.
At least the whiff of fragrance from the crown is comforting. Till’s scent – Ivan decides that this is the answer from now on.
He imagines it as Till graciously giving a part of him to fill in the gaps of Ivan's hollow chest. Perhaps, it's his miniscule attempt of helping Ivan, to quell down the black sorrow that’s devouring everything from within. A dark current with no bounds, the tides dragging Ivan in, draining whatever life that remains, leaving a mere shell of perfection. A shell that adapts to everything, a facade that Ivan spent countless days shaping and polishing until it's flawless. This is his proof of living. And frankly, he would've accepted it as it is– he simply never learned how to complain. Acceptance is always better than false hope, especially for someone like him.
Life growing up in the slums had taught him that everything comes with a price, even if it hasn’t been tagged yet. To survive, he merely had to adapt. Unsha had taught him that everything is transactional– the reason why Ivan is still alive in the first place. Thus, he doesn't understand why Till would give him something like this for free.
Why would anyone give him something without expecting something in return? What could he possibly give Till?
Ivan could never understand, because Till never asked for anything in return. He only gave. Unlike Ivan, Till is full of life. He's rebellious, loud, and isn't ashamed to retaliate– something Ivan had long lost the ability to.
As Ivan aimlessly drifts along the midst of his dark sea, he doesn't mind drowning part of himself in his own prison, as long as the other half gets to survive. If it meant sacrificing his ability to feel, then surrender comes easy. After all, he is the perfect actor. A master of the art of mimicry. He only needs to observe how his peers act, and then wear them like second skin, once again refining his shell. Whether it's a smile stitched from memory, a laugh hollowed from habit– in the end, he serves to perform. And Ivan knows, if he imitates them carefully enough, and copies them with more precision– eventually, he would come to understand his feelings. And maybe then, when aliens cease to exist, would he have the courage to pierce through the facade he built for the sake of survival.
For now, everything is fine.
Everything should be fine.
He thought he would be fine even if it meant to spend an eternity inside of this pitch-black in solitude.
And then came Till, shattering the numbness he had built for himself. Just like a shooting star, he blazes through the abyss, leaving a trail for Ivan to follow– that, for Ivan, is enough. He merely had to observe it, from afar. Snuffed out by his need, crushed by the weight of his longing. Till’s spark is something he could never imitate– something he could never obtain, never possess. Ivan knew his desire was too strong; if he'd ever got a hold of his shooting star, the flame would extinguish. He'd hold on to the light he craves so badly, so tight, that it starts suffocating from his presence alone. Eventually, it would erode in his palms, ground into fine dust.
So Ivan could only relax his grip and observe like a believer, at least grateful that it had once paved him a path. An opportunity. A different ending.
And for once, his life enters a reset– a loud thumping heartbeat rings, sudden and violent, tearing down whatever walls he had built for himself. It startles him. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. Warmth trickles back into his limbs. A stuttered inhale, his chest expanding like it’s remembering what motion feels like. What it feels to live.
What it means to live.
For someone like him, who’s a stranger to emotions– Till is his very first awakening. The first person to ever make him want to walk out from his shell, to make him shed his skin.
Now he's regretting not showing appreciation for the flower crown earlier. He truly loved it, so much so that even if it wither in his hands, he would still cradle it with reverence, as if he’s worshipping something so sacred.
After all, he can't reach him.
Ivan could only scavenge the pieces Till had left behind.
Ivan’s been wearing the flower crown everywhere, from singing practice to late night revision, so much so that it's worn off. The stems come loose and it's no longer as tidy as it was, slowly losing its shape, akin to a bundle of wire. Still, that’s not a hindrance for him, Ivan appreciates it as another feature to love.
“Hey, that flower crown is falling apart with how much you have been wearing it.” Till points out bluntly, pausing his music composition for a short moment. A lazy afternoon, just two of them taking a break from their usual music lessons– Ivan considers this a rare luxury.
“Huh? I like mine just fine.” Ivan replies, tracing his fingers along the crown, without a care of its deteriorating state. For him, it is as good as new. Most importantly, Till’s scent still lingers. It would be wasteful discarding it– after all, he's an addict, and Till is his drug. He clenched tighter onto the flower crown to prove his point, until the imprints of the stems were left on his palms.
Till winces uncomfortably, a flicker of concern in his gaze– to which Ivan returns a smile with. Too sincere, it had Till cringing.
“Throw it away, I'll make you a new one.” He sighs, neatly arranging his music sheet before gesturing toward the flower garden. Still, Ivan managed to capture Till’s smirk, even if it only lasted for a glimpse. He knows Till too well– he's probably triumphing over his success, prideful that he managed to impress Ivan.
But Till didn't even need to try. Ivan had always been mesmerized by him.
He would follow Till’s footsteps, no question asked.
“No.” He tuts playfully, holding the flower crown away from Till's reach, teasing him like how one would to a cat, “but I would love to have two flower crowns.” Ivan hums, crouching down with face pressed against his knees, watching as Till plucks the flowers one by one, only selecting the best, so determined and passionate. The reflection of the red petals in Till’s eyes had Ivan captivated, as if there's warmth to it instead of just hollowness. He could keep staring forever as much as he wanted to.
And if Ivan could suspend time, he would make sure it would just remain like this for eternity. Just the two of them, away from the world, in their sanctuary. Ivan huddled close, leaning against Till’s back, listening to his thumping heartbeat, a soothing lullaby that would gently coax him into slumber.
“I don't understand. Just throw it away, it's not a big deal.” Breaking the silence, Till snaps off a brittle branch and tosses it aside, reaching for another flower bud. He's been searching for minutes, and still hasn't found the most suitable one for Ivan. He's beginning to get frustrated, knowing that they will be punished if they don’t return by sunset.
“That's because you're a dumbass, Till.” His chuckles were soft, but those words were thorny enough to prick Till’s skin. Just when they were having an intimate moment, Ivan had to ruin everything. Sometimes Till wonders if he does it on purpose just because he could. How could someone be this unreasonable?
“Well yeah? You look stupid with that. Like a loser.” Till hisses, like a cat having his tail stepped on, finger jabbing at the flower crown, huffing with anger– an attempt to get back at Ivan. They were bickering like children, like they have always been, and Till actually wants to win their banter this time. Because Ivan genuinely looks so stupid with the ugly loose crown– just like wearing an actual bird nest instead of an actual ornament.
Ivan doesn't respond to his taunts, still, he had his usual smile plastered on his face, unfazed by Till’s words. Till swears that it's unsettling, and he had captured a minor twitch from Ivan which reverted back to normal in a blink of an eye– regardless, he brushes it off and paints himself as overthinking. It's Ivan after all, he's always been this unpredictable– surely, he's just messing with him like always.
“Whatever. I'll make a new one.” Till mutters, jabbing Ivan by his shoulder, “...sorry.”
“I know you will, Till.” Ivan grins, “you like me the most.”
“I don't. Ew.”
Ivan figured so, but was nevertheless happy Till allowed him to inch closer.
Heavy rain poured down, accompanied by the howling wind and the occasional crack of thunder.
Their final performance, together.
Dancing hand in hand.
His shooting star is starting to dim. The rain had dulled his fire, snuffing out that once-blazing spark, leaving only a hollow, flickering core. Till had stopped singing long ago, the chorus lost to the wind, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes quiet with surrender, embracing his fate.
He doesn’t even spare Ivan a glance. Determined to end it all together.
Ivan could not allow that. Never .
And if it meant he could witness his shooting star burn for a bit longer, Ivan would gladly surrender everything. Even himself.
For once, he acted out of his pulsing heart, and not from his survival instinct. He would share this heartbeat with Till. And if it meant keeping his love alive, his sacrifice is determined in the beginning. It has already been written in his fate– the moment he set his eyes on his star, he was destined to fall with it.
He’s a walking contradiction. He doesn’t want to burden Till with his death, he yearns to set him free– yet, he seeks to carve his shape into Till’s heart. Just a scar, maybe even a small scratch, or an itch. Something to remind Till that Ivan has once existed. Something for Till to hold onto once he’s gone. Then again, this is all redundant– he’s probably a mere speck of dust in Till’s life. A pebble that always trips him over. He should’ve treated Till more kindly, instead of constantly stirring trouble to win his attention over.
So before parting ways, Ivan allows himself to be selfish for just a bit.
Broad palm encircles the pale neck– and Ivan pulls Till into a rough, ruthless kiss. Hungrily devouring each breath, each pant, each whimper. A soft chastisement. A declaration of farewell.
Bang.
A loud gunshot reverberates throughout the stage, the bullet piercing right through his heart.
Ivan pauses for a split second, unable to react, taken aback by the metallic taste forming in his mouth as crimson trickles down his chin– and Ivan grins, ever so slightly, beads of tears forming at the corner of his eyes.
He never would've known a coward like him could've been this brave. Someone who’s afraid of confronting his feelings, yet loving Till came as easy as surrendering his life.
It should’ve been achingly painful, but somehow he finds comfort knowing that Till would live. At least he could rekindle the flame. Even if the fire does not burn for him.
He collapses onto the cold floor with a loud thud.
A pool of crimson spreads from his chest, staining the white fabric of his suit– brilliant and jarring, like ink spilled on snow. He’s like a dove, gunned down mid-flight, resting in a pool of red. And in the haze of fading breath, he imagines it’s not blood at all, but a sea of flowers. A field of blossoms, the same ones Till once wove into crowns with his careful hands. If this is the end, then let it be this– submerged in something that reminds him of love. May he be the one to put this to an end.
Then again, reality is harsh. Who was he kidding? He has never properly expressed himself. Never appreciated or conveyed his thoughts. Before these feelings for Till could even bloom, they were already cut down, nipped at the bud. He had nothing left for Till. The blood that spills could not even compare to a field of flowers, not even a petal– merely the remnants of his pitiful, wandering soul.
“Ivan–!”
He must be delusional, because in his final breath, he hears Till call out to his name. Perhaps it was mercy born from his fading mind, as Ivan allows himself to indulge in one final flicker of hope before submitting to darkness. From nowhere, to now here. And then, back to the beginning.
He doesn’t understand why there were tears flowing down Till’s face. Why should he cry for someone like him? Till’s merely a victim of his shallow emotions, shouldn’t he be relieved instead? Should he not be glad that he’s free from the weight of Ivan’s feelings?
It doesn’t matter anymore. He would’ve mouthed a quiet ‘cheer up.’ But Till’s vision is clouded by crimson. He mourns, bawls, and collapses, with him.
If only Ivan knew that his flower withered alongside him.
If there really is a next life, I would've loved to make flower crowns with you.