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Till has made it home, which became quite the drunken stumble of a journey in the end.
It was Dewey who wound up driving him home — an uncharacteristically quiet ride for the two of them; Till can't speak, but the rebellion senior normally spoke for the both of them. On the ride home, Dewey had neither jokes or whimsy for Till after he'd seen the state he was - still is - in.
There was rain in the forecast, but it wasn't supposed to start so early. The thick cry of the crickets are quickly drowned out and eventually replaced by the steady pitter-patter of rainfall, thumping atop the old, iron ceiling of their current 'camp.'
Because of course it's fucking raining on top of everything, too.
"Hey," Dewey called out gently just before Till reached the handle to his dorm room. "'Member to drink some water. You look an awful mess."
If Till had a protest, which he normally does, he couldn't voice it anyway. He simply waves the man off and disappears into the darkness of his room.
When he closes the door behind him, he spots the wet stain on the edge of the bed, right on the old carpet floor. The sight doesn't frighten him anymore.
Till looks up.
There's a leakage through the old roof. That's new, but unsurprising. It's not like their lifestyle granted them any hope for luxury, safe living, but Till in particular has never felt that his life, neither here, nor Anakt Garden, nor the Stage, was ever luxurious. But the leakage offers a sort of familiar comfort. When he looks back down at the drenched water stain, he sees a pair of white, wet shoes.
The very same ones.
He doesn't look up this time.
"He looked familiar," 'Ivan's' voice teases; it slices clean through the downpour of rain. Why is his voice always so goddamn loud compared to the rest?
Till can never avoid his sight for long.
The rain is fresh on his hair, trailing fat tear-like drops down the sharp tips of his bangs like veins. Clear, empty veins. Ivan's pupils are blown out and blood red —
Just like the last the Till had saw them.
His chest aches.
Fuck, everything aches. He recoils, and his hands instinctively reach for his neck.
'Ivan's' arms appear from behind Till, hands gripping on both his wrists, and crosses them over his chest as he drags him back into 'Ivan's hard, warm, wet, body. It makes no damn sense, and it never has. Till can't earnestly tell if he's hugging himself right now or his mind is so far out from grief, but he basks in the embrace that he might have once had, but escaped him since that night.
"Till."
'What?'
Suddenly, Till remembers that he speaks to 'Ivan' through his head. What voice does 'Ivan' hear when Till 'speaks' to him? Is it cold? Pained? Does he sound pathetic as he feels? 'Ivan' should know by now; he's Till's Ivan.
"I said, he looked like me."
'That's not what you said.'
"Haha. Well, it was what I meant."
Till is lying on the bed now. He's drenched and unsure if it's from the leakage or it's just another one of 'Ivan's' — or his mind's — own doing. He rolls on the side and is met by a younger 'Ivan' in white Anakt Garden robes. He's staring up at the crack through the ceiling like his dark eyes can see through the thick storm clouds and light pollution to see the constellations that once awed both he and Till. 'You knew it wouldn't work out.'
Dewey had set Till up with a rebel member from another branch in a city far away from here. Acting as a courier between the two branches, Dewey insisted that they'd all go out drinking together get to know one another once the man expressed his interest in getting to know Till.
And 'Ivan' was right: he looked familiar. He has dark hair and dark thick lashes, and dark eyes. It's not uncommon traits for a man in this part of the world to have, Till had discovered, but he teased in a way, and smiled in a way. It was wrong when his eyes crescented and lips curved but no fang pokesd out for Till to fix his gaze on in lieu of his piercing stare.
Till panicked. He excused himself to the bathroom and emptied his stomach through his mouth, then he watched his lunch flush down the toilet. His hands shook so hard with effort to stop himself from scratching his neck that he couldn't write responses anymore.
He had to be driven home where 'Ivan' will finally greet him again.
It's been months.
"Of course," 'Ivan's' voice is breathed into Till's ear. It was always the oldest 'Ivan' — the last Ivan that Till saw — that was the clingiest. He clutches onto Till from behind like he can slip through his limbs. Till has a couple guesses as to why. "You're mine."
It hurts. It aches. His eyes burn; Till wants to curl into himself into the artificial warmth of a ghost, but the rain keeps him colder than ever.
"You've always been a bit of a crybaby. Let me cheer you up."
'Ivan's' hand feels uncharacteristically hot as it slides up Till's shirt, caressing up his navel and bellybutton. "'M… not crying. I'm not."
He's on the verge of it. If 'Ivan' keeps touching him, he might just. "Hurts. You were gone for so long."
"You can always call for me."
"…Stupid." Till doesn't have to explain why. How can he call for Ivan when he has no voice to speak with. But that's besides the point. "I have been calling. You've been ignoring."
"Is that why you agreed to the date? With the handsome courier who looks like me."
Till reaches back to palm over 'Ivan's' thigh, as if reality is at the twilight and he is now basking in the dream that follows.
"Mmm. You knew it would send you spiraling." 'Ivan's' hands is now on his chest, playing with his nipples in a way he's learned to love. Till moans a little wantonly, a little too needily. "You planned for this."
Yes, Till planned for this.
He didn't think it would work. 'Ivan' had been gone for some time - he tends to when Till has a stretch of good things happening that prevents his mind from being reminded.
But the courier expressed interest.
Till felt a pang in his heart when he saw the back of the man's head and thought 'Ivan' had appeared it. He doesn't even remember his name, and it's become clear it never mattered anyway. Till used him because he knew that if he was familiar enough, it would send his mental state in a spiral.
'Ivan's' hands reaches his neck and they cut off his air supply with haunting familiarity.
What a comfort it's become.
"—Yes," his broken voice chokes out somehow.
He planned for this.