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Growing up, the slums were all Ivan knew. There was no world for him outside the grime, the cramped alleyways, and endless hunger. He couldn't fathom any life outside of it.
It was as if one day, he blinked, and he was surrounded by trash and rot, never knowing how it felt to feel warm, or full, or even safe. He did not have a name—would later be coined as Ivan, though not of any choice of his own—no recollection of his parents, or how he even ended up in the slums. But those petty details didn't matter to him, had much more pressing details to tend to. Chiefly, survival.
The nights were always the hardest.
It was all he could do to find a place to sleep, bundled up in a ratty jacket he had found in the trash, his unruly hair plastered to his grimy forehead. The asphalt would be cold underneath him, small rocks digging into his skin, the back of his scalp. No matter how tired he was, he could never actually fall asleep. Too hungry, too cold, and too paranoid. If he slept, it was highly plausible that someone would try to attack him, so he had to keep his wits about himself.
Sleep and rest, too, were a luxury when sleeping with one eye open was paramount to survival.
But in the mornings, when the sun shined bright, he became invisible.
Nobody paid attention to a dirty child on the streets, dressed in rags, with a rancid stink that clung to him like a shadow. He could blend into the background, watching the passersby come and go, in their fancy clothes and eating all the food that Ivan could only glimpse at from afar. On his better days, he would fantasize about what it would be like to live a single day in their shoes. What would it be like to be a child who wasn't abandoned on the streets by parents who didn't love him? To have a surplus of clothes and toys that he didn't know what to do with? To be loved and wanted? On his worse days—which were most of them—he wished that every single person who lived a better off life than him would perish and die, hoped they would suffer the same way he did.
But then, one day, somebody saw him for the first time.
A boy with silver hair, walking hand in hand with his mother, whom he shared an uncanny resemblance to. Ivan had been watching them curiously, wondering not for the first time what it would be like to have a mother. Would she hold his hand, too? Would she smile at him the same way this mother smiled at her son? Would she protect him from harm and scold him if he did something wrong?
As if sensing his gaze on him, the boy turned, bright green eyes shining bright in the sunlight as he locked eyes with him, shrouded in shadows. He looked at Ivan curiously, blinking owlishly as he tried to make sense of him.
He tugged on his mother's sleeve, and Ivan assumed that the boy wanted to state his discomfort, wanting to walk away quickly from this area. Get away from all the dirt before it stained his clothes. Escape his prying eyes.
But instead, the mother let her son approach him with an encouraging smile, watching him from afar so she could step in if the need arose. The boy slowly walked up to Ivan, hesitation bleeding through each step. Ivan backed up closer against the wall, mapping out how close the alleyway was from here so he could run away in time. He'd never been approached by anyone else before, and he didn't trust it.
He was also irritated. What was this boy—dressed in his nice clothes, clean skin, with a loving mother to hold his hand—doing here, approaching him with no care in the world. Part of Ivan wanted to be violent with him, hit him, make him hurt. He wanted to see those green eyes welling with tears, so the boy could feel a fraction of the pain that Ivan lived in on a day to day basis.
But, for some reason, he remained rooted in place, waiting to see what the boy would do. Maybe he would spit in his face, or call him gross. He might even hit him. Ivan was ready for this, would retaliate, perhaps by sinking his teeth into his soft skin and drawing blood. But the boy betrayed his expectations by proffering a hand to him.
In it, there was a handful of candy.
Ivan looked at him skeptically, waiting for a trap of some kind. The candy could be laced with something—he'd been offered weird food by many strange adults in the past which he now knew better not to accept no matter how hungry he was—or maybe he was going to throw it in his face and laugh. That had happened before, a throng of boys throwing rocks at him and laughing about how he was a homeless orphan. Very uninspired insults.
But the bright wrapper enticed Ivan. And he'd never had candy before. He'd only ever seen it on the displays of the stores, through glass windows, so colorful and vibrant.
"Take it," the boy told him. "It's all I have, but you should have it instead of me."
Ivan considered him for another moment, but he didn't see any cruelty in his green eyes. Rather, it was the opposite. His eyes shined with a kindness Ivan had never seen before, let alone directed at him. He was used to either being invisible or looked upon with revulsion.
Reluctantly, Ivan accepted it, his dirty fingers scraping against the boy's clean hand, leaving a track of dirt behind. The boy would have to wash his hands now. Slowly, he unwrapped one of the candies, and he examined the red candy sitting in his palm. He nibbled at it, but unlike the poison he'd been expecting, sweetness burst on his tongue instead. He'd never had something sweet before, but he knew that food came in two flavors, savory and sweet. This didn't taste like the stale bread he had or the discarded food he'd scrounge up from dumpster bins—this was delectable. This had to be what sweetness tasted like, he just knew it.
He popped the rest of it in his mouth, the candy melting on his tongue, sweetness mixing with his own spit. It tasted delicious. It was the best thing he ever tasted.
"Do you like it?" The boy asked, lips tilting upwards in a smile.
He did, but Ivan didn't know how to show assent, nor did he know how to verbalize it, so he simply stared. The boy cocked his head to the side, trying to make sense of his silence, but failing to do so.
"My name is Till," the boy said. "What's yours?"
Again, Ivan didn't reply. He had no words to provide, and even if he did, he had no name to offer him at the time.
A laugh fell from the boy's lips, but it sounded unnatural. His smile failed to meet his eyes now. He took a step back. Ivan's fingers twitched around himself, his body urging him to move.
But to do what?
"I'll try to find you again, okay?" the boy who now had a name—Till—told him. "I'll bring more food, and maybe you can tell me your name next time."
Till turned around, going to return to his mother, and Ivan reached his hand out to stop him from leaving. He didn't want him to go. Why couldn't he stand there a little longer? Ivan didn't know how to have a conversation, but they could sit together, right? He didn't need the food—really.
But he couldn't call out—nothing but a small sound escaping his throat that fell on deaf ears—but Till continued walking forward without looking back at him once, oblivious to his call. The mother, however, saw whatever pathetic expression Ivan must have been making because her face was pinched. She looked like she must have hit her foot against something to make that kind of face, or perhaps caught wind of Ivan's stench.
Ivan watched Till walk away, and it felt as if he took the sun away with him as he did, plunging him back into the cold despair of the slums in his absence.
Every day that followed after that fateful day where Ivan met Till for the first time, he'd wait for him at that same spot on the street. Rain or shine, Ivan refused to budge from his spot, hands wrapped around himself, invisible to all the passersby who ambled on. Sometimes, when the days were long and Till's absence stretched on, Ivan would lick the wrappers that remained from the candy he'd given him to summon the phantom memory of the sweetness he now associated with Till.
Those candy wrappers, their bright colors now faded and the paper torn, were now Ivan's most prized possession. They were the only proof Ivan had that he hadn't imagined that day, the only moment of kindness that he'd ever received.
And yet, Till never came back despite his promise. It had been days, possibly weeks, but there was no sign of him. He must have forgotten, the homeless boy on the streets of little consequence to him when he had a warm home to go back home to.
"Till," Ivan whispered, the first word he had ever uttered. The only word he knew how to enunciate. It was foreign on his tongue, tasted bittersweet. "Till. Till. Till."
He was trying to manifest him, to summon him with his name, but his magic spell never worked. No matter how much he spoke his name, Till never appeared. Perhaps Ivan should have known better than to trust the words of a young boy who looked even younger than him, but for some reason, he had.
Till's continued absence was Ivan's first experience with pure, and utter devastation.
On a particularly cold winter morning, a shadow approached him, at the same spot where Ivan remained. Waiting for a boy who would never come.
Foolishly, Ivan thought it might be Till, hope welling in his chest as he looked up. But instead of a boy with silver hair, he saw a tall and imposing figure. Cold, dark eyes. Lines accentuated his eyes, the rigid set of his mouth, belying a sense of importance to this man. But then, the man's face split into a smile. There was no warmth in it, however, but sinister. He showed off a set of shiny white teeth that were the same shade as the snow descending around them, a sharpness to his canines that made him appear as a predator.
Ivan shifted, wanting to run. There was nothing good that came out of adults approaching children like him on the streets.
"My name is Unsha. It's a pleasure to meet you." The stranger greeted him, sinister smile widening. "How would you like a chance to change your whole life, boy?"
Except the words he posited at him landed as more of a statement than a question.
Ivan stared at him, heart thudding against his ribcage. He had understood what was being asked of him, but he couldn't process it through the fear that pulsed through his veins.
The man, Unsha, sunk down to Ivan's level, his cold eyes boring into his own. He stroked his beard as he considered him, pensive in a way that made him shudder.
"You see, boy, I'm looking for a child who can play the role of my son but without all the pesky legalities that adoption typically involves," Unsha told him slowly. "There's a sharpness about you that I've been searching for. A tenacity to live despite your subpar living conditions that makes you a suitable candidate. Do you understand me?"
Ivan clenched his fingers in his threadbare jacket, but it was no shield, and it failed to protect him from the man's prying gaze. His grin widened at the movement, took it for understanding.
"Naturally, we'll clean you up. Give you some lessons before we introduce you to the world at large, as well as teach you how to speak since you're clearly lacking in that department." Unsha's lip curled at this, patting Ivan's cheek with a calloused palm, making him flinch. "But I think it will be manageable. You'll be elevated from a rat on the streets to an heir of high social standing—most boys your age would kill to be in your position."
Unsha wasn't wrong about this, however, no matter how suspect his golden offer was. He was telling Ivan that he could come live with him, and he would no longer be cold and hungry, nor would he need to sleep on the asphalt with his eyes open. He was giving him a chance to live the life he'd always coveted, could only ever envy others for having, staring in from the outside. This was the opportunity to change everything, to become somebody instead of an invisible nothing.
Then again, what if Till came back here someday, and he didn't find Ivan here? Would he be foolish for passing up this opportunity on a maybe that might not come to pass? It had been months since the day Till had made that promise to him.
But part of Ivan wanted to hold on, and wait a little longer. That singular moment of seeing Till again would mean more than a lifetime of luxury under this strange man's roof. That part of him managed to win over his logic.
So, he stood up, ready to leave. He would wait until Unsha left, and then he would resume his spot lest today be the day Till showed up for him.
A sigh fell from Unsha's lips, shaking his head as he wrapped a hand around Ivan's wrist. It was a vice grip, one that he couldn't break out of no matter what. It pained Ivan, was sure a ring of bruises would form on his wrist in the shape of his hand, but he hoped it wouldn't be any worse. That nothing would crack under the pressure being exerted upon him.
"I wanted to give you a choice, boy, so you could come along willingly," Unsha said, voice eerily calm. "But, apparently, we will have to iron out your stupidity as well."
Snap.
Ivan's arm fractured with an audible crack, and with it, so did the only life he'd ever known. It looked like he wouldn't be able to keep his promise to Till, after all.
His life took a 180 degree shift after he was moved into Unsha's manor.
First of all, his world was no longer the dirty alleyways of the slums, but now restricted to the halls of the manor. Not all too different from the slums—cleaner perhaps—but it was still cold and isolating all the same.
He was also given a name. Ivan. It was supposed to be a regal name, one that meant the graciousness of a God, which was likely how Unsha had viewed himself, hence why he bestowed that name upon him. He was told that it was a name held by leaders and rulers alike, noble people who were full of ambition and wielded power like a sword, claiming the highest positions of society with their charm and intellect.
That was what Unsha expected from him, would tolerate nothing less.
And so, alongside his name, he was given many, many lessons. It seemed that every waking moment of the day, Ivan would be taking a lesson of some sort. Private tutors who would teach him how to speak, write, read, and do arithmetic. Personal trainers who would coach him through a variety of sports, as well as the finer arts of elegance and poise, the political art of how to act in high society being drilled into his skull—even the mechanics of how to smile beatifically to win over whoever he was speaking to was something he'd been forced to learn. A music instructor who taught him the piano, showing him how to run his fingers over the keys to produce music, elegant and beautiful in nature.
It was overwhelming, and discombobulating. He still didn't understand why Unsha chose him of all boys, for he certainly wasn't the only child who lived on the streets, but he also knew that he'd never be able to leave. He would have no choice but to follow through on what Unsha expected of him, to play his part, lest he be disposed of. Even then, he had a very keen understanding of what awaited him should he disappoint his benefactor, that it would be something much worse than the slums he'd known.
Besides, when he did not have his lessons, he had a bed to sleep on, warm and safe. He also had food to eat; a strict diet to follow, yes, but it was still food, nonetheless. He could eat the finest delicacies, the sweetest desserts, letting their flavors burst on his tongue. Every day, he would request the kitchen staff make him a dessert, and they would oblige him, humoring his sweet tooth.
And yet, nothing he ate was as sweet nor as delicious as the candy Till had offered him that day.
"Till," Ivan whispered his name as he stared outside from his perch on the windowpane, his first time being the one looking outside from the inside. He'd never known that being on the other side of the glass would feel exactly the same way, even more trapped than before. "I wonder if I'll ever see you again."
As usual, Ivan received no response.
It was human nature to adapt to the circumstances they were forced to live in, and Ivan was no exception to that rule.
Over the months and years he had spent in Unsha's manor, being groomed into the perfect son, he'd grown accustomed to a life of luxury. He became used to the comfort of living in a large home with a team of servants at his beck and call, to the privacy of having his own room, the normalcy of never needing to go to sleep cold or hungry. Anything he wanted was always within reach, nothing ever too expensive a price tag for Unsha's protege. Toys, electronics, books—if Ivan desired it, then it would be his.
But as he started to grow older, he started to learn that there were certain things in life that he would covet, but would never be allowed to have.
The first time he was cognizant of such a thing was when Unsha took him to the family home for Chuseok, a year into the new life he'd been given. There was a girl there, roughly around his age, called Sua. She was quiet, reserved, and he had observed that nobody ever scolded her for not smiling all the time or for speaking out of turn. What he had found most interesting, though, was the nature of her dynamic with her older sister, Hia. A kind smile that Ivan had never seen the likes of before painted across Hia's face, evident fondness as she carried her, braided her hair, and painted her nails dotingly. Their parents smiled at them both, said that their daughters were so sweet and polite, that Sua was kind while Hia was bright.
Were all families like this? If so, why didn't Unsha ever smile at him the same way?
It reminded Ivan of the fleeting moments of kindness he'd see on the streets while he was in the slums. Of the smile Till's mother had given him before she let him approach him. He'd tried to put Till out of his mind, but there were some days where he couldn't help but think of him, on the harder days. The days where he felt lonely, yearning for someone who had already forgotten him.
Perhaps that was why Ivan decided to be bold, sure his request wouldn't be rejected.
"Unsha." Ivan sat across from him in his office—he'd been strictly instructed not to call him 'father' because he didn't want to foster any emotional ties between them—and tried not to begrudge himself for feeling so small in front of his guardian. "Do you love me?"
Unsha scoffed, pouring himself a glass of scotch. "What's this about?"
"I was just—curious, I suppose," Ivan replied, fidgeting in his seat. "Today, when I saw Sua and Hia together with their parents, it made me wonder."
"Curious about what?" Unsha asked, considering him over the glass. "You know I don't like it when you speak in circles, boy."
"Curious if you loved me, too, the same way their parents love them."
"And what should that matter when I've given you everything that a child like you could have ever dreamed of and then some?"
He was right. Ivan knew he was right. But it still hurt to hear, a part of him wanting to push back against it.
"I thought that because I'm your son—"
Ivan heard the ringing in his ears before he registered the pain, reverberating against his cheek, his head twisted to the side under the weight of Unsha's hand. A moment passed, and then two, Ivan lifting his hand to his cheek. Already swollen, the coppery taste of blood flooding his mouth as he stared up at Unsha, his eyes cold and void of any emotion.
This was the first time Unsha had ever hit him since the day he broke his arm in the slums all those months ago, so perhaps that was why it took Ivan entirely too long to process what had just happened.
"You are no son of mine, you are merely playing a role, as such I will never love you," Unsha told him. "Do not forget your place, Ivan."
"Understood."
The bruise on his cheek remained, refused to fade for several weeks that followed. The pain was a stark reminder of his place within the halls of this manor, the purplish discoloration against his pale skin serving as his badge of shame that he would never be loved.
But that beating had failed to weed out that strange desire to be cared for, to be loved by someone, even if Ivan knew that it was impossible. He knew that he could never be loved the same way he knew that Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy weren't real, that he couldn't defy gravity and fly, nor would he ever be able to gain the super power of turning invisible for even a few minutes to get even the barest reprieve from Unsha and all his overbearing demands for perfection.
And yet, a small piece of him waited and hoped, cradling the old candy wrappers given to him as an afterthought so long ago close to his chest.
Over time, Ivan had slowly started to forget Till.
He'd only met him once, after all. He couldn't remember his face, even if jade eyes often haunted him in his sleep, but that was all. He knew there was no way that they would cross paths again.
Not for a lack of trying on Ivan's part, though. He had tried looking Till up online, but he only knew his first name, and his name was too vague to get any results by searching alone. He tried the antiquated phone book he had found in Unsha's office, but that had yielded similarly disappointing results.
He'd even tried to revisit that spot in the alleyway where he always waited for Till, but the servants refused to take him to such a 'low-class' area, so he could only ever get a fleeting glimpse of it through a car window. But, of course, there was no Till in sight.
He'd come to accept over time that he simply needed to move on, to stop dwelling over the past, especially when his life had already changed so much.
Until the day he met Till again by chance, who quite literally managed to alter his world upon its axis.
He'd been aimlessly wandering through the corridors after school one day, still had some time to kill before his chauffeur picked him up. School was a reprieve for him, the only place he could loosen the leash around his neck, away from Unsha's watchful eye. He'd been navigating the building without any clear destination in mind, eyes scanning the art pieces and instruments hung up on the walls.
But then he caught the airy notes of someone singing.
Curious, Ivan followed the sound, the song becoming clearer and more audible as he approximated the distance to the source. An old music room, the door left slightly ajar, as he peered inside to see a boy with silver hair. He must have been somewhere around his age, but he looked scrawnier, his clothes hanging loosely around his lithe frame. The guitar on his lap dwarfed him, but he handled it with an ease that Ivan couldn't help but envy because the piano never came to him as naturally.
Could it be him? Ivan wondered, heart seizing in his chest. It couldn't possibly.
He stood there, transfixed, listening to the notes that came from that guitar. Beautiful, heart-wrenching. Ivan's chest tightened imperceptibly as his heart started to swell in size. An emotional reaction he didn't expect to have.
Then there was the song.
The boy's voice was beautiful, filled with so much emotion that Ivan could never compute. Unsha always lamented the fact that Ivan seemed to be so emotionless, called him a robot—learning how to smile, and how to inject emotion into his monotonous voice were two of his hardest challenges to overcome—but this boy was the opposite. He was filled to the brim with emotion, overflowing with it, his voice positively dripping with its excess. His heart raced as he listened, watched the boy sing with every fiber of his soul.
Ivan had never known that music could be so beautiful. The notes he produced on his piano never sounded like this, never resonated in any meaningful way, were nothing more than just noise.
But then the song came to an end, and Ivan felt the emptiness rush into his chest once again.
Ivan stepped inside the classroom, making his presence known. The boy turned around, jade eyes staring at him, wide with a mixture of shock and embarrassment.
It was him, Ivan realized. Till. Older now, no longer so small with his large eyes, but it was still him. He'd never forget how emotive his green eyes were.
What was he supposed to say? That it was him at the alleyway all those years ago? Demand to know why Till never came back for him? To ask him to stay and never leave him again? He'd imagined finding Till for so many years now, and yet, he'd never once considered what he would say once he actually found him.
But then again, Till probably didn't remember him. He could tell as much from the quizzical glance he shot his way, no sign of recognition in his expression. It made sense, Ivan thought ironically, that Till would be his entire world and he was nothing more than a random child on the street one day.
"Play it again," Ivan demanded in lieu of anything else to say. "I want to hear it again."
"Uh, hello?" Till frowned, clutching the guitar close to his chest. "I don't even know you. Who are you to tell me what to do?"
Ivan pursed his lips. Usually, when he told the servants around the house he wanted something, they'd provide it to him without much push back. It was only Unsha who would deny him of what he truly wanted. The other kids in school and the teachers were the same, showering him with praise and attention.
But Till was denying him. Why did he have to be so difficult? But he didn't seem cruel either, not like Unsha. He did appear to be guarded, however. How to make him let down his guard, however? Ivan had waited for so long to see him again, he couldn't simply pass this moment up. He needed to make this moment count. He racked his brains, trying to gather a strategic tactic he could use when he landed on the right one.
Politeness. Maybe if he was just polite, surely, Till would fold for him.
"Please?" Ivan asked, the word foreign on his tongue. "I would like it very much if you played the song again."
"Why?" Till frowned. "What does it matter to you if I sing it again?"
Ivan hesitated. What did it matter indeed? He didn't know why this was so important to him, to hear this song again. Maybe it was the innate belief he had that if he left this room now, he'd never see Till again, let alone hear his song a second time.
And if that were to be the case, then he wanted something else to remember him by to tide him over.
"I just want you to." Ivan's fingers clenched into a fist, his snaggletooth digging into his bottom lip until it throbbed. "Please."
Till watched him, his large eyes filled with distrust. He clutched the guitar closer to his chest. Ivan let out a sigh, disappointment curdling in the base of his stomach.
Till would say no, and that would be that. He would have no choice but to leave, lament over this day, resenting himself for letting Till go a second time, while his song faded into the recesses of his memory.
Much to his surprise, though, Till nodded. "Okay."
But before he could start, a hand clamped down hard on Ivan's shoulder. He turned around, seeing the taciturn expression of his chauffeur. He felt as if he'd been doused with a bucket of ice.
How long had Ivan been wandering? How long had he been here, listening to the boy's song? How could he have lost track of time like this?
How long had the chauffeur been standing there, watching? How much had Ivan given away?
"Who is this?" the chauffeur asked.
He was going to get in trouble. Unsha wouldn't like that Ivan was found loitering around school, wasting his time with another boy. He'd made it incredibly clear that he hated it when Ivan wasted precious time, wanted him to be productive every moment of every day. He'd told him that interpersonal relationships were a distraction, that he ought play nice but ultimately keep to himself. And Ivan was good at following the rules. He stuck to himself at school, keeping all his interpersonal relationships at a polite surface level, but didn't let anything run any deeper than that.
But he knew how this scene would look to an outsider. Everyone employed under Unsha loved to report things back to him, embellishing events to give them a little more panache, knew it would get them a raise or a bonus if they managed to anger him enough to have Ivan punished.
And more than his fear of his own punishment, Ivan didn't want Unsha to know anything about Till. It was for the best if he stayed entirely off his radar.
"Nobody." Ivan shook his head, plastering a smile on his face. Smiles, he had learned, were the best way to placate adults from escalating things. "Just a boy from school."
"And what were you doing with him?"
"Nothing."
Till's eyes shifted inquisitively between Ivan and his chauffeur inquisitively. Shame coalesced and congealed in Ivan's chest. He must have looked pathetic in front of him. A coward, a sheltered one at that.
This was not the lasting impression he wanted to part upon Till.
"Nothing," Till repeated. "He just got lost. He was asking me for directions."
'He's covering for me,' Ivan realized. 'But why? He doesn't even remember me.'
"Alright." The chauffeur nodded. "Time to go home, young master."
Ivan followed, but his eyes found Till as he left. There were so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell him that he liked his song, that it made him feel something, which was the real reason he asked him to play it again. Ask him if he was just as friendless as he was, if that was why he was hiding away in this classroom after the school day. He wanted to ask him if he ever thought of the boy in the alleyway, because he thought of him almost every day even when he tried his best not to.
But Ivan's lips remained firmly sealed, the words lodged in the base of his throat. He felt just as wordless as he'd been all those years ago.
Till continued to watch him, a mix of curiosity and pity on his face, mirroring the expression his mother had looked at him with, which forced Ivan to turn away from him. He hated being pitied. There was nothing to pity. He had everything he could ever need.
That afternoon, when he got home, Unsha didn't beat him like he had expected him to.
The chauffeur apparently hadn't seen the situation he'd walked in on to be important enough to write home about, which was a relief. But as Ivan worked on his homework, he thought of the boy with his large green eyes and a beautiful voice, and his heart ached. He clutched his chest, feeling it hurt more than it ever did when Unsha rained his fists upon him.
He had long since accepted that he would never see Till again, but now that he had, he knew that he wouldn't be able to rest until he saw him again.
The days blurred after that, with Ivan playing the role of the model son that Unsha wanted him to be, while trying his best to find Till within the school corridors whenever he had time. He searched high and low for him, went back to the music room countless times, but he never found him again.
It was frustrating.
All Ivan knew was his name—refused to believe that the boy in the music room could have been anyone else—but he didn't know what grade he was in. When he inquired the teachers about him, they didn't seem to have any idea who he was talking about. No memories of seeing him around school came to mind either.
A deeply ironic fact considering how Till now tormented him every time he closed his eyes, his face no longer faded, but crisp in his memory. He wanted to see him again, but he was also afraid of what would happen if he did.
Whenever Ivan wanted something, it never ended well for him.
But then Till found him instead.
Till approached him in the courtyard one afternoon. He'd been sitting in the shade of his favorite tree during free period, was supposed to be studying for an upcoming test, but instead, he doodled some clothing designs into the corner of his notebook. Nothing he'd ever consider buying—he'd learned his lesson that one day all those years ago—but he liked to visualize certain clothes. Imagine what it would look like on him, on others.
That was when a shadow blocked his view, obscuring the sketch he'd been working on. Slowly, Ivan looked up, catching sight of the boy who plagued his thoughts these past few days. Clutching the guitar that was so much bigger than him close to his chest, jaw set with determination.
"My name is Till," he announced. "And I'll play the song for you 'cause you asked."
Till. It really was him. Ivan stared up at him. The sun filtered through the branches of the tree, shadows dancing across his face, but his verdant eyes shined nonetheless. Ivan's heart thudded against his chest, his pencil falling out of his slackened hand. He'd known it was him. He knew that Till was real, that he hadn't imagined him, had the candy wrappers as evidence of his existence.
But to see him standing before him, stating his name so boldly, solidified his presence in Ivan's life into something much more tangible.
There was, of course, the concern that someone might see them together. But then again, they were at school, and none of the manor's staff would see them. They didn't have to know. And Ivan had dreamed of this day for so many years now, to know if he'd feel that same tectonic shift he felt in his chest when he'd met him the first time. If he told Till to go away, he knew that there would be no second time.
"I'm Ivan," he introduced himself with a curt nod. "Play your song then."
And so, Till did, without any interruption this time.
As Ivan listened to his song, that same shift recurred in his chest, albeit stronger this time. He felt it consume him, his eyes widening as he watched Till sing his song. His voice beautiful, captivating, full of all the emotions that Ivan lacked. It was only when Till reached the crescendo of his song, opening his eyes to glance at Ivan with a dust of pink coloring his cheeks did he finally realize what he wanted from Till.
It wasn't his song, nor his voice—not even his companionship—though those were part of it. No, what he wanted was Till himself.
Friendship was a concept that Ivan only knew about conceptually, but hadn't ever thought would be applicable to him on any personal level.
He knew that a friend was someone to pass the time with. A person that was not family, but would remained by his side, not out of obligation, but because they wanted to. A friend was someone that he would be able to show his ugly sides to without needing to maintain his impeccable facade of perfection.
It didn't occur to Ivan that he'd ever be able to have someone in his life he could call friend, but the relationship he had with Till would be difficult to describe using any other terminology.
Till clung to him, despite being a grade below him as Ivan eventually learned, he insisted on spending every moment of free time together. Every recess, free period, and after-school hour was now occupied with Till's presence. Ivan, who was accustomed to the silence and his own company, was now adjusting to a new normal filled with Till's endless chattering and the songs he serenaded him with.
Till was determined, Ivan would give him that. He wouldn't become deterred by Ivan's terrible conversational skills, nor did it bother him that Ivan could never meet him on the weekends to hang out at his house even with his mother's supervision. Never did Till mock Ivan for having a chauffeur or for the way he shut down whenever he came to collect him after school. He wasn't even fazed by the fact that Ivan didn't know any of the songs he played for him, or by the fact that his father never picked him up from school despite his mother picking him up every day (even if she frequently ran late because of her odd work hours).
Often times, Ivan wondered if Till merely put up with him because he had no friends, too.
Till's constant company by his side, with no friends to ever draw him away, implied as much. He enjoyed Ivan's company too much despite the subpar quality of it. Possessed a misplaced loyalty towards Ivan that he certainly did not deserve. Rather, an apt interest shined in Till's eyes as he sat with Ivan; listening to him tentatively discuss the books he liked, no judgment flickering across his face when he admitted that he liked clothes a lot more than he should.
Ivan had worried at first that this would become a problem. A friendship with another boy could surely only spell trouble for him with Unsha. But the days passed, and Unsha took no notice nor care about Ivan's new friend. Ivan realized that he must not know, or maybe he did, but simply did not care since Till had yet to interfere with his grades or performance in any notable way. So, he started testing his boundaries a bit. Walking home with Till instead of going home with the chauffeur, going over to his house, coming home late. And yet, Unsha gave no reaction, as if hardly even noticing Ivan's presence or his absence. Perhaps something he should be upset about, but rather, he found it to be a blessing.
Still, he made a mental note to make sure that he didn't slip up, didn't allow himself to fall into a lull of comfort, giving Unsha a chance to come between them. This newfound leniency had to be a test, Unsha's way of seeing how loose he could keep Ivan's leash, and how he'd perform as a result, and so, he mustn't disappoint him.
Because this thing with Till, this friendship, it had to work out. It needed to.
For the first time in his life, someone else cared that he existed, paid attention to him for more than just the accolades he had claimed or his family's name. Like a wilting flower that was finally exposed to the light after years of darkness, he flourished and blossomed under Till's attention. He craved it, wanted to maintain it. He didn't want to bore Till, nor did he want to push him away.
He'd try to adjust his behavior to match the companion and friend that Till so clearly sought out in him. If Till wanted him to be more jovial, then he would start learning how to smile more and develop a sense of wit he'd previously lacked. Till loved music, so he started to listen to music on his computer at night after he finished all his homework and piano lessons, developing an ear for music that could give him a common ground to share with Till. He was overly self-conscious of Till's sensitive nature, how easily he'd get offended or recoil at Ivan saying or doing the wrong thing, so he became extra careful of how he presented himself and phrased his words so that he didn't elicit any negative reaction in Till.
The efforts he exerted were fruitful, ameliorating the distance between them until it was almost non-existent. Till adored him, called Ivan his best friend, a title nobody ever used to refer to him before. Though the word that attracted Ivan more, the one that made him preen, was the possessive term of ownership; his. He loved belonging to Till, wanted to devote all of himself to him forever.
Ivan knew that wasn't enough, however. All the time spent together, the closeness between them, none of it was enough. He didn't want to just sit with Till or play games with him.
He wanted to crack open his ribcage and climb inside, nestling himself inside his body, permeating under his skin. He wanted to exist with Till every single moment of every single day, the two of them together always, and the only way he could do so was by becoming one with him. Within him existed a clarity that if he were to do so, he'd finally be complete, and so would Till. Neither of them would have to be lonely anymore, two halves of one whole at last.
But he was only just a child, on the cusp of puberty, so he had no idea how to go about doing that. But one day, he'd figure it out.
A chance presented itself the day Till offered Ivan a flower crown.
It was meticulously woven, the stems connecting and interlocking with an expertise that Ivan couldn't help but be impressed by, the red flowers glowing brightly against the green stems. It looked beautiful.
Till kept it extended, restive as he waited for Ivan to accept it. Ivan didn't know the occasion, but he accepted it nonetheless.
"Thank you." He cocked his head to the side. "What's the occasion, though?"
Till shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wringing his hands together. It was the nervous tick he performed whenever he didn't have his guitar in close proximity to cling to.
"It's a gift, idiot," Till stated as if it was obvious.
But it wasn't obvious. At least not to him. Ivan didn't receive gifts, and he couldn't understand why Till would care to give him one.
He must be missing something. There had to be a motive that Till had yet to reveal.
"Why?"
"Why?" Till echoed. "Because it's your adoption day." Ivan could hear the 'duh' intoned at the end that Till just barely refrained from saying aloud.
Ah, he did suppose that the day was February 14th, his adoption day. He'd forgotten until he came into school today and saw the red, heart-shaped balloons everywhere, and all the kids in his class were exchanging chocolates today. Valentine's day, his mind supplied, the day of love and romance. He'd gotten a variety himself from the girls, all blushing as they handed him their homemade chocolates, which he had accepted gratefully because he liked sweet things.
But those girls didn't know him. They were just giving him chocolate because they saw him as someone that he wasn't, liked the image of him that he projected, so they didn't count. He doubted any of them knew that today was his adoption day either.
The only reason Till knew was because he had pestered him for the date of his birthday, and so, he had told him. He wasn't even sure if February 14th was his actual adoption day or not, but it was easier to pick a random day in the middle of the month.
"So?" Ivan shrugged. "Why should that matter? It's just another day."
"No, it's not!" Till sputtered. "It's special! This day only comes once a year!"
"I suppose it does," Ivan hummed. "That makes me thirteen now." Or maybe twelve, or fourteen, he had no way of knowing. Regardless, it was another year closer to independence, to living on his own, no longer under anyone's mercy.
"I'll catch up to you soon enough." Till huffed. "But anyway, I—I couldn't get you a proper gift 'cause I didn't get any allowance this month." Another pause here, Till's cheeks growing redder as he broke Ivan's gaze, staring down at his ratty sneakers that he'd clearly outgrown. "But I couldn't not get you anything either. I'm also terrible at cookin' so I can't really bake you chocolates either? So, like, I know it's nothing to write home about, but I hope you like it anyway."
Ivan listened to Till's word vomit carefully, his chest tightening imperceptibly. Just enough that he started to feel asphyxiated.
His adoption day was just another day of the year, one that was so insignificant that nobody in his family remembered it, let alone Ivan himself. Gifts and the like were naturally off the table as well. Ivan didn't even expect it.
But Till remembered. He crafted this crown with his hands, and was offering it to him as a gift. He knew that Till was different. He was special.
"Right." He squeezed the petals, feeling how soft they felt against his fingertips. So fragile, so ethereal. "Thank you."
'What if I ate it?' Ivan thought, considering the flower crown in Till's hands. 'That way, I'll have it with me forever. It will never wilt.'
There were thorns on the stems, he realized. Perhaps it would perforate his esophagus and stomach on its way down, scarring his intestinal tract, etching Till's mark onto the very insides of his body. They could provide a more lasting effect than the candy Till had offered him all those years ago. An interesting theory.
"Do you like it?" Till asked.
"Mm." Ivan nodded. "I love it."
Ivan would then go onto sear the exact shape of Till's smile—a nervous uptick as he tried to stem his own satisfaction, so very cute and endearing—into the back of his skull so he could never forget it.
Ivan spent the entire night vomiting flowers.
His vomit was a congealed mess of red flower petals, green thorns, and blood. He despaired as his body continued to heave all its contents, leaving him breathless, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. He wanted so badly to keep it down, but he couldn't, his body betraying him by continuously emptying everything inside of him until he was left bereft.
The red petals on the floor seemed to mock him. A stark reminder of all the things he wanted, but couldn't have. The greed that possessed him, but when he followed it, he lost the very thing he'd been trying to preserve.
And when he attempted to eat his own vomit, consume what his body had regurgitated, one of the servants walked in on him. When she saw the blood speckled on the floor, bright red and fresh, the vomit he was forcing into his mouth—she screamed.
It wasn't fair, Ivan thought, as the alarmed servants of the manor dragged him to the emergency room on a stretcher. All he wanted was a piece of Till inside of him. Was that too much to ask for?
But there was a silver lining among the black clouds that loomed over him.
The doctor informed them that Ivan had lacerated his intestinal tract, that he wouldn't be able to eat solid foods for about two to three weeks until his body healed. He smiled, not at all bothered by this fact. Somehow, he'd managed to achieve his goal.
He was able to mark himself with Till's essence. He hoped that his insides would be marked with the remnant scars forever.