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The first time it happens, Till is stirred from the abyss by the gentlest touch against his neck. Warm fingers tracing the scars, tentative as they ghost over tender skin that was once cauterized with metal.
When Till’s eyes open, his vision is blurry and dark. He’s on a bed—not his bed, in the rebel camp, the one he fell asleep on—in a dimly lit room. (Not his room, either.)
The mattress sags lower near Till’s waist, and he looks down to see the vague silhouette of someone sitting on the bed next to him. It reminds him of years and years ago, when he would be awoken during the middle of night by—
The dream fades into darkness.
—
The second dream lasts longer than the first.
Till wakes up on the bed again, with the figure sitting on his bed, again. But he becomes conscious enough to identify more definitive shapes and colors: black hair, pale skin, white fabric.
“Ivan?” Till asks. His voice is hoarse, as if he hasn’t talked in years.
Dark, curious eyes stare into his. It’s a stare Till knows so well. A stare he’s missed every day since those eyes closed forever.
“Ivan!” Till scrambles to sit up and tackle Ivan in a hug. He feels so warm.
“Till,” Ivan replies.
Till’s eyes water, so he squeezes them shut as he buries his face into Ivan’s neck. Ivan sounds exactly like he remembered—more, even; his memories become steadily fainter and fainter by the day. (This is different from the hallucinations that taunted him in the first few years. Kinder, maybe.)
“What’s wrong?” Ivan asks, returning the hug with hesitant arms.
Till just shakes his head.
“Okay,” Ivan says.
Till starts to fade as he holds Ivan tight. (Somewhere, distant, he hears Ivan say softly, “This is nice.”)
—
The next dream takes Till by surprise. Complete stupification, even.
He’s not wearing pants. In fact, he’s not wearing anything, and his bare legs are slung over Ivan’s shoulders. Till realizes with a jolt that he’s hard—Ivan licks at the tip of Till’s dick, and Till slumps back against the mattress.
“Oh my god,” he whimpers. What the fuck?
He can’t even process what’s happening with the onslaught of pleasure. The heat of Ivan’s mouth, his palms pressed against Till’s legs, his tongue curling against Till’s dick. Till struggles to breathe, and his useless hands clutch desperately at the sheets.
“Wait, waaiit,” he cries. The tangling in his core is building too quickly.
Ivan makes a noise around Till’s dick and Till keens, back arching against the bed. Ivan nudges a finger into Till, and—oh—it’s a strange sensation that knocks Till’s world out of balance. Till moans and twitches and squeezes and that pushes Ivan’s finger into a spot that—
“Ahh, fuck,” Till gasps, and then he’s cumming into Ivan’s mouth. His body convulses, spasming, thighs squeezing tight around Ivan’s shoulders, but Ivan just keeps sucking, swallowing, pressing, rubbing until Till’s hearing goes staticky. He lies there, boneless, save for the occasional twitch.
Till blinks his eyes open. Ivan is staring up at Till; the blood red of his irises is eclipsed by darkness, and his mouth is wet with spit and—god knows what else, Till doesn’t want to think about it.
Ivan forces in another finger and Till whines, flailing to get away. Ivan uses his free hand to hold him down.
Till tries to push him away. “Ivaaan, I just came—”
“Just a little bit longer,” Ivan says, unmovable as ever. “Please.”
The breathy please runs circles in Till’s head. He surrenders with a weak, overstimulated noise.
Ivan kisses Till’s thigh and continues to stretch Till open. Till drowns in it, and then gasps when Ivan finally pushes in. Ivan is so much bigger than his fingers, but the dream makes the slide slick, and somehow, it doesn’t hurt too much.
Once Ivan bottoms out, flush against Till’s ass, he stills. Till’s ankles are hooked over Ivan’s shoulders, and his thighs are pushed against his chest, Ivan’s arms caging him in over the bed. Till’s cock is hard against his stomach.
He feels so exposed. Vulnerable. And yet—inexplicably, safe.
“You’re so much more beautiful than I imagined,” Ivan murmurs, pressing a kiss to one of Till’s calves.
“Don’t say that, oh my god,” Till blurts, covering his face.
“Why not?”
“I just—It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s true, though.”
Ivan starts moving, and it fucks any possible response out of Till’s lungs. Each thrust punches deep into him, rubbing up against his prostate—fuck, Till is still so sensitive, he can’t stop shaking, dripping, squirming. Ivan is ruthless and he takes Till’s cock into his hand and Till screams. His thumb teases at Till’s tip, he strokes up and down so tight, and that’s all it takes: Till curls in on himself as much as he can, with Ivan holding him down, and spurts across his chest and stomach. He’s making absolutely debauched noises but he doesn’t care; all he cares about is Ivan in him and Ivan’s hand still fucking touching him, squeezing out every last drop. And then Ivan’s grip loosens, he curses, and his hips stutter as he pushes in as deep as he can. His cock pulses inside Till, spilling into him.
The world finally slows. Ivan pulls out and collapses next to him, and Till’s legs fall to the bed, the motion rolling him onto his side. Ivan hugs him tightly from behind, even though they’re both sweaty and sticky. Ivan nestles his face into the nape of Till’s neck as his breath slowly evens out.
“’m messy,” Till mumbles, unfiltered. “Can feel your cum in me.”
Ivan groans against Till’s neck. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“It’s true, though,” Till mocks.
“Can I fuck you again?”
“You just—”
“Please?”
“…Fine.”
Ivan kisses the back of his neck in gratitude. Till is loose enough for Ivan to push in from that position, so he does. It starts as slow, shallow rolls, but Ivan gets more aggressive. He can’t build much momentum when they’re on their sides, so he pushes Till onto his stomach and presses in on top of him. The weight of his unfairly muscular body squishes Till into the mattress, trapping Till’s stupid, hard-again cock beneath him. Till scrabbles at the sheets and Ivan puts his hands over Till’s, securing him against the bed as Ivan’s hips drive into him again and again.
Till’s eyes roll back into his head. He can barely get a breath in, barely get a moan out, with his face smothered in the pillow. Ivan pounds into Till in short, precise thrusts, and with nowhere to go, Till can’t escape the rough pleasure seeping through his veins. Just as he begins to tip over the edge once again, he hears—feels—Ivan cum, groaning low by his ear, throbbing and hot inside him.
And then nothing.
—
Till wakes up before Ivan, this time.
Even back in Anakt, it was a rare occurrence—Ivan was a light sleeper and a stubborn dumbass, so Till basically never saw him sleeping.
So, he watches Ivan sleep. His lashes are long and dark against his cheek. He looks so calm, like this, laying next to Till. They breathe together. Till watches Ivan’s chest rise and fall and rise and fall.
Slow.
Steady.
Eventually, Ivan’s breathing pattern changes and he stirs. His eyes scrunch a little and then open, and they almost immediately lock onto Till.
“Hi, Till,” Ivan says.
“Hi, Ivan,” Till says.
Ivan pulls Till into his arms. Till just breathes him in—Ivan’s scent, his warmth.
—
“Are you happy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like… are you happy?”
“That’s the same question, Till.”
“I—jeez, do you not know what happiness is?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You’ve never had your heart beat faster and you smile and you just feel warm inside?”
“You know that smiling doesn’t come very easily to me.”
“I guess.”
“I’m not sure I can understand your inquiry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s probably just a result of growing up without other humans.”
“Perhaps. People have always been strange.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. You’re super weird.”
“I’m sor—ah.”
“…What was it like? In the slums.”
“Dark. Isolated, but you know that already.”
“I’m sure Anakt must’ve been a shock.”
“It was.”
“Were you lonely?”
“Not before Anakt, no.”
“What? Really?”
“I had nothing to miss. Nothing to want—until you.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry, too much?”
“No, just, processing.”
“…”
“Why would you miss me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well that’s a helpful, informative answer.”
“You are… a light, in the darkness. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re fierce and rebellious in a way that I could never be, and it shows in every action you take: in your stubborn pout, in your determination to fight back, in your songs. I always hoped that you’d write a song about me, you know. But I know I’m not very inspiring, so I can’t blame you for not.”
“…”
“Till?”
“…”
“Are you okay? Hey, don’t cry—”
“Shut up, dumbass.”
—
The dreamspace is strange. It changes sometimes; it’s not always the room with the bed. Sometimes it’s a grassy field. Sometimes it’s more of a feeling than a place. Everything teeters on the edge of reality—a mirror that shifts and stretches and will dissolve into smoke if you look too closely. Sensations are strong, and emotions are even more so, but memories are faint. Distant. Mere echoes, shadows that brush through Till’s mind with little effect save for raising the hairs on his neck, or settling in the pit of his stomach.
Till becomes somewhat used to it: forgetting the real world and being immersed in the in-between. Talking to the memories in his mind.
He becomes comfortable, here.
With the echo, shadow, smoke, the love of his life.
—
Ivan gets up to open the window. A gentle breeze drifts in.
After a while, it starts to rain.
Till closes the window.
—
There are a few dreams, here and there, where neither of them speak. They just hold each other.
Floating.
Sinking.
Drowning.
Sometimes Till can’t hold back his tears, and Ivan does his best to offer some semblance of comfort.
On some level, Till is grateful that his mind is giving him these last little pieces. Happier snippets to help him look past the eternal grief. It’s strange, really, to live new moments with a dead person.
—
Tonight, Till is back in Anakt—or, more specifically, a blurrier version of the fields. He’s lying on the ground, staring up at the fake, blue sky.
Ivan approaches, soft footsteps crinkling in the grass, and holds something out to Till.
Till sits up to get a better look.
It’s a flower crown.
“I owe you one,” Ivan says as he drops it onto Till’s head.
Till just blinks at him, utterly baffled. The crown pushes some of his hair into his eyes. He doesn’t manage to form a sentence before Ivan walks away.
—
Till wonders how long this will go on.
—
During a particularly quiet dream, while they’re just lying down, limbs entangled, Till gets an itch to say something. It crawls up his throat like a parasite.
“Sometimes, I don’t want to wake up,” he admits quietly. It’s something he can only say here, in the confines of his own mind, where no one else will hear it. “I miss you.”
Ivan sits up slightly. “What do you mean, wake up?”
“This is a dream,” Till says.
“You think you’re dreaming?” Ivan asks.
“I know I’m dreaming, dumbass,” Till says.
Ivan blinks at him. “I’m dreaming.”
“Huh?” Till jolts upright, eyes wide.
“You. This Till. You’re a figment of my imagination.”
“I am not!” Till says indignantly. “Wait, you think you’re dreaming?!”
“I believe so, yes.”
Till pushes Ivan away, gets off the bed, and starts frantically pacing around the room.
“You’re telling me you’re real?” Till demands, turning around to look at Ivan, who’s sitting on the bed, still as a deer in headlights. “Like, really Ivan?”
Ivan’s eyes track Till as he walks. “I think therefore I am. But who’s to say, really?”
“Fuck, only Ivan would say that,” Till groans. He collapses, head in his knees.
Ivan gets off the bed and sits down on the ground, in front of Till.
Till glances up at him. “But you’re so different here.”
Ivan stiffens. “I’m sorry. I… you’re different, too. That’s why I thought you were just a dream.”
“What do you mean?”
Ivan laughs. There’s some despairing bitterness to it. “You really think the Till I know would cry and hug me when he sees me? That he’d be happy to be around me, that he’d miss me? That he’d…” Ivan trails off.
“Oh,” Till says dumbly. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Till looks up. Ivan is staring at the floor between them with this somber, guarded expression, something between guilt and shame. It’s strange, having finally had the chance to grow, and now Till knows what it means.
“It’s not your fault, either,” Till says.
“It is. It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Till repeats, more firmly. “Ivan, come on.”
“It’s fine, Till. You don’t need to make excuses. I would hate me, too.”
“That’s not—I don’t—didn’t—”
“You do, Till,” Ivan interrupts. “It’s easy to tell. Maybe you don’t anymore, maybe you’ve forgiven me, but the Till I know does.”
“I am the Till you know!”
“How old are you?”
Till freezes. His breath gets caught in his throat. “…Twenty-eight.”
“Exactly. You’re not the Till I know. Not anymore.”
Till is afraid to know the answer, but he asks anyway: “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
It’s what Till expected—really, it is—but he still crumples a little bit when he hears the words leave Ivan’s mouth.
Ivan laughs halfheartedly at his reaction. “Well, I can expect great things from future me, then.”
“You—”
“Don’t tell me,” Ivan says. “I don’t want to know.”
Till stares at him. “…Okay,” he concedes.
There’s a breath of silence as they both reel, swallowed by the gravity of their fates. (Ivan doesn’t even know the extent of it, yet. And Till knows too much, still. Always.)
“You could try to talk to me, you know. Your me,” Till says. “I’ve never hated you.”
Ivan seems to consider it for a moment. “Do you think you’d listen?”
“…Probably not,” Till admits, sagging a bit.
“Yeah,” Ivan says. “You’re not really available right now, anyway. Busy brooding about Mizi.”
“Oh.”
They both sit and process.
“I can’t believe we dream-fucked,” Till says suddenly.
Ivan seems just as shaken by the realization, judging by the silence.
“I can’t believe you’re real, oh my god,” Till says again, falling onto his back, palms covering his eyes. “That means everything you said—and what we’ve done, what the fuck. I—we—”
“I’m sorry,” Ivan says.
“Stop saying that, I wanted t—shut up,” Till sputters, ears heating.
“Really?”
Till might die of embarrassment. “…Yes.” It’s barely audible.
Till can almost hear Ivan’s smile.
—
Days (nights) turn into weeks.
—
In one dream, Till asks, “Have you ever wondered what would’ve happened if you escaped? If you didn’t follow me back.”
“No,” Ivan says. The response is much faster than Till expected.
“Really?”
Ivan shrugs. “It was never really an option.”
“You could’ve made it, though, right?” Till says. “With the rebels.”
“Probably.”
“Then, why…?”
“Nothing could make me leave you,” Ivan says quietly. He sighs. “Even if you, well, didn’t care. I couldn’t go without you.”
Till is stunned into silence. He can’t imagine that devotion—but then again, he did abandon a chance at freedom for a girl he barely knew. Something clicks into place in Till’s head, gears shifted, fragments altered.
“I thought you hated me,” Till says.
That makes Ivan chuckle. “I could never hate you.”
“But how? I—I left—”
“I expected it. I… I hoped it wouldn’t happen,” Ivan admits. “But I knew it, deep down. You’ve never failed me. It’s just what makes you you.”
“…So you don’t hate me?” Till asks. It’s a dumb, redundant question, but he needs to know.
“Far from it,” Ivan says.
“Oh.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No, of course not,” Till answers quickly. “I like when you’re around.”
“Hm.”
“What would make you think that?”
“It’s hard to gauge what you’re thinking, sometimes. My Till doesn’t really care if I’m there or not, but you’re so… different. The disparity is jarring.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s just how you are.”
“Yeah,” Till says. “It’s just how we are.”
Ivan huffs a breath. Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you still sing?”
Till pauses. “Sometimes.”
“Can you sing something?”
“I… I don’t have anything to sing,” Till says.
“Nothing?”
“Well. I have been working on a song, I guess. It’s not finished.”
Ivan just waits.
Till clears his throat awkwardly. He hums the melody, and then starts to sing at the parts he’s already written lyrics for:
A night repeating
Half-empty frames tucked away in drawers
I stop, clutching my throat,
Whispering “it’s fine” as I move on
…
And still, I read you
His voice breaks off right before the chorus. Nothing he’s tried yet has felt right—it’s all off, wrong—so the tension dissipates into nothingness.
“That’s it,” Till says. “For now.”
“It’s nice,” Ivan says.
“Thanks. I guess.”
“Is it about…?”
Till nods. Ivan glances down at the floor, blinking rapidly. Neither of them want to say it, speak it into the world like that’ll make it more real than it already is.
“I’m glad you still have your spark,” Ivan says after a while, his voice more watery than either of them would ever admit. “I’d love to hear more of it, if you come up with anything else.”
“…Yeah.”
—
All dreams end.
Kiss the world goodbye. Grains of time slipping through desperate fingers, faster, faster—
—
This dream looks like the outside: the fiery meteor showers—the ones Till has gradually become familiar with, the ones Ivan grew up under. When Till comes to, Ivan is standing in front of him, head tilted up to the sky. Till realizes, with a remorseful dread, that it’s probably been a long, long time since Ivan has seen the real thing. He wonders if it feels the same.
Till cautiously walks up to Ivan, who notices—he always notices—but doesn’t tear his gaze from the cosmos. Till can see the arcing flames reflected in the darkness of Ivan’s eyes.
Before Till can change his mind, he impulsively grabs Ivan’s hand and squeezes.
Only then does Ivan look at him, his head angling ever so slightly, like he’s hesitant to break the spell. There’s a sad expression on his face. Something akin to longing is seeping out from the shadows. (If only Till had been able to decipher it earlier. He desperately wishes he had known before it was too late.)
Neither of them say anything.
But Ivan doesn’t let go, and this time, Till doesn’t either.
—
“I’m singing against you tomorrow,” Ivan says casually, like it’s not the end of the world.
Till freezes. “Oh.”
They’re laying on the bed again. Ivan is hugging Till from behind.
“Have you finished your song yet?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ve finished most of the verses, but I still can’t figure out the chorus. Nothing fits perfectly.”
“Can you sing what you have? One last time.”
Till does. It’s not his best performance—he’s lying down on his side, after all—but it’s good enough. (He doesn’t want to move away, so it has to be good enough.) Ivan traces vague patterns onto Till’s thighs. Till’s heart hurts. When the soft melody dies out, the room returns to silence and breathing and thumping heartbeats.
Ivan kisses the back of his neck, along the scars.
“I’ll remember,” Ivan says. “Always.”
Till is too choked up for words.
“Can we…?”
Ivan doesn’t finish his question, but he doesn’t have to—Till knows what he’s asking. (He had been thinking about it, too, ever since the first time it happened, before they found out this was real.)
Till nods.
Ivan’s hands slip under Till’s shirt. His fingers brush gently over Till’s skin, the barest sensation. His breath ghosts hot over Till’s neck, and Till subconsciously pushes back against Ivan’s hips, aching to get closer.
Ivan rises up onto his elbows, turning Till over so his back is flat against the bed. He pulls Till’s shirt off; Till lets him. Ivan’s head dips lower and his hands curl around Till’s waist as he settles between Till’s legs. His mouth, warm and wet, trails down from Till’s collarbone to his chest—surely, he can feel Till’s heartbeat underneath his lips—to his nipple, where he pauses to lap at it until Till starts to make little gasping noises.
Without pausing his suckling and slurping, Ivan tugs Till’s pants down, letting Till’s quickly hardening cock hit Till’s stomach with a soft thwack. He’s already glistening with pre.
But Ivan doesn’t pay any attention to Till’s dick, his fingers instead sliding lower, pressing over Till’s perineum and then circling his entrance. Dream physics—biology? Till isn’t really sure, it’s not important—slicks Ivan’s fingers and Till’s insides as Ivan pushes a digit inside. Till whines softly at the intrusion.
“Good boy, taking me so well,” Ivan murmurs, dotting kisses and bites over Till’s chest. “So pretty.”
Till bites his lip to suppress a moan as Ivan pushes deeper, brushing up against his prostate. Ivan curls his finger and Till keens, legs tensing around Ivan. Ivan swears. Till feels a second finger join the first, stretching him open.
“I could never have imagined you would want this,” Ivan says. “Never in my wildest dreams.”
“You’re a talkative fuck, aren’t you?” Till jokes, trying to relax around Ivan’s fingers.
“I just think you should know,” Ivan replies easily.
Till doesn’t have a response to that. His face flushes and he throws an arm over it in a futile attempt to disguise his embarrassment.
“Don’t cover your face, I want to see you,” Ivan says, nudging Till’s arm to the side. “You’re beautiful.”
Till’s first instinct is to cover his face again, but he can’t, so he just squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers and feels his ears turn warmer.
“And I want you to know that, if I had known the first time, that you were… real,” Ivan says, “it would’ve been different.”
“It’s okay,” Till breathes.
Ivan adds a third finger. “No, it wasn’t, I shouldn’t have pressured you, I should’ve confirmed that you—”
“Wanted it?” Till interrupts. “I wanted you then, just like I want you now, Ivan. Right now. Hurry up and fuck me already.”
Ivan’s eyes dilate and he doesn’t argue. He quickly takes off his clothes, aligns his cock to Till’s hole, and pushes in, slow, stretching Till open as he presses deeper and deeper. Till squeezes around him—he’s so solid, so warm, so real.
“But still…” Till continues, “thank you.”
Ivan blinks at him.
“For making sure,” Till clarifies.
“Of course,” Ivan says softly.
Ivan doesn’t fuck him like he did before.
He rolls his hips slowly, mouths at Till’s collarbone and nipples. He takes Till’s cock into his hand and traces delicate fingers over the tip, smearing a bead of pre across his slit before beginning to loosely stroke him. Till can’t stop whining between panting breaths. Every thrust nudges his prostate, sends sparks up his spine. Till’s legs cling tighter around Ivan’s waist.
The pleasure, syrupy sweet, builds almost imperceptibly—Till is overwhelmed, inundated, smothered with Ivan.
“I love you,” Till whispers.
Ivan rises to press a soft kiss to Till’s forehead, and when he looks back down at Till, it seems like his eyes are watery, but that could just be Till’s own blurry vision.
“I love you,” Ivan says.
Till cries when he cums, shaking apart in Ivan’s gentle arms. Ivan only lasts a few seconds longer before he hilts deep and goes still, throbbing inside Till. They stay like that, holding each other, joined together as one. Just breathing. Lingering.
Long after their orgasms recede, Ivan pulls out and sits on the bed next to Till. Till shakily sits up as well, leaning toward Ivan.
Eventually, Ivan breaks the silence: “Are you happy?”
Till blinks back the memories. “I… I don’t know.”
Ivan stares at him. “I guess that makes two of us.”
Till, despite it all, laughs. “Yeah.”
And then the glass cracks, time spills. The walls of the room start to fade. Ivan turns to look at Till.
“Well, I guess this is goodbye, Till,” Ivan says.
“No,” Till says.
“You know what it feels like by now, don’t you? When the dream starts to end.”
“I—yes, but—” Till’s eyesight starts to go blurry. He scrambles onto his knees, grips Ivan’s arms, holding onto him like a lifeline.
Ivan raises his hands to Till’s face, wiping the first streaks of tears from his cheeks. He says, so, so softly, “It’s okay, Till.”
“No, you can’t leave,” Till cries.
Ivan just holds Till’s face in his hands. His face is—it’s just like the last expression Till ever saw, that time. That pained, self-sacrificing smile. Ivan gently presses his lips to each of Till’s eyelids, like he’s trying to kiss away the tears. As if that’ll make them stop flowing. Ivan’s fingers trace gently along the lines on Till’s neck.
“Ivan, you—” Till can barely enunciate the words through his sobbing.
“I know,” Ivan says. “I know. I’m glad it’s you, scars and all.”
Till’s voice isn’t working. He cries, and Ivan smiles at him again.
“It’s always been you.”