Chapter Text
The first note starts at the base of his spine, warm and full, gradually drawing forward through his body to his navel; he can almost feel the bow sliding across the strings, the shape of the instrument spontaneously appearing in his mind. He hadn't even noticed he had been furrowing his eyebrows until they naturally soften at hearing the notes, which grow gradually in complexity, humming over his skin from somewhere just out of reach.
He keeps his eyes closed and listens passively, letting the song swell and ebb however it will, leading his mind's eye over the glossy wood of the cello. He watches the bow move on its own, the song being performed by no one and nothing, except perhaps whatever neurological condition it is that grants him the ability to envision things in his mind. He feels warm, sleepy and stupid, almost safe, like a blanket has been pulled over his shoulders— he hadn't realized just how tired he was, either. The vignette in his mind is a soft pink, like you might find in a nursery. It's so comforting every time, and part of that comfort is due to it being exactly the same every time.
Why does it always happen this way…? His mind is ever a vacant theater, his body drifting somewhere far away, always disconnected… until the music starts, which, despite attempting to do so as long as he can remember, he cannot control. A sudden twinge of longing pulls in his chest, deeply wishing he could hear this song more; he yearns to hold onto it, to be able to determine when it starts, when it ends, and how often he hears it. In desperation, he sometimes prays to be deafened by it, even, both his actual ears and his ability to hear things in his mind, just so it wouldn't be able to disappear just as he's getting comfortable, which is what’s happening right now. Again.
The sound suddenly stops, the images and colour disappear, the sensation of warmth and comfort vanish all at once and he feels like he could sob, the weight of its absence pulling heavy in his chest. He's embarrassed by how easily affected he is by this great Nothing At All that he can't even really explain. No one else he knows could understand this feeling, the sense of loss that somehow comes from something that does not even actually exist disappearing, but he feels it all the same.
"—Are you even listening? Till."
The voice of the moon which controls the tides of music in his mind calls his name suddenly and he starts, jolting slightly in his seat, and begins to sit up sluggishly. He scrubs his hands over his face and makes a long disgruntled noise into them, trying to ground back into reality where there is no cello to be seen, only the boy he has felt some kind of way about since they were kids– even younger kids than they are now, anyway.
He partially slouches back over his desk but this time in a different posture, one only inspiring the memory of someone who is attentive without actually embodying it himself. Chin in hand, he blinks languidly like a cat, but much less comfortable in reality because the space he's in is inhabited by several other people, including whoever Ivan had been talking to while Till was listening from another dimension. He hadn’t processed a single word being said, only the way Ivan's voice translates into music in his mind. Sometimes he worries if Ivan might get the impression Till avoids looking at him when the truth is just that he can hear the sound more clearly if his eyes are closed.
Don't get him wrong— Ivan's voice is beautiful and Till loves to hear him speak, he just doesn't particularly feel privy to what Ivan is saying if Till isn't the one he's speaking to; Till is a grade-A certified minder of his own business and, as he understood it, Ivan had been speaking to someone else. In those moments, Till prefers to just be close and listen, immersing in the music that compulsively manifests when Ivan speaks, leeching a sense of comfort and familiarity in one of the least comfortable places known to man: a high school classroom.
Ivan is standing close enough to reach out and touch, leaning back casually on the desk across from him when Till looks up into his eyes. Maybe Ivan flinched, maybe he didn't– Till is tired and doesn't trust his eyes even more than usual, but it does make him a little curious and he feels a slight tingling in his belly.
Till knows Ivan spent years learning how to become unreadable on purpose and fortunately he was close enough to Ivan to learn how many of the tricks worked firsthand, but somewhere along the way, Till was partially shut out, ultimately becoming one who struggles to read Ivan in the present just like the rest of humanity. These days most of Ivan's tricks are highly refined and he seems to recover from upsets almost too quickly to be seen by the human eye, so Till doubts his own perception of Ivan a lot. He's never exactly been the brightest light bulb in the toolbox, or however that saying goes. He’s too sluggish to remember much of anything at the moment.
"Speaking," Till drawls, yawning widely and half collapsing back into folded arms, but keeping his face tilted to the side so he can keep looking up at Ivan to show he is paying attention, now that his name has been called. Ivan scrunches his nose and laughs under his breath a little the way he usually does when he seems endeared or something similar and the edges of Till's vision instantly surge with a mixture of bright pink and green while his stomach does a brief but very impressive audition for Cirque du Soleil. If the fine people in charge of that program were inside his body watching the behavior of his internal organs— which would be a perfectly normal thing for them to do, what, with employing contortionists and all— he would surely pass with flying colors. Regrettably, they are not present inside his body today, but given how often Ivan does this maddeningly cute physical quirk and the breakneck pace of the advancement of modern technology, Till's innards may get their time to shine someday yet.
"Repeating," Ivan says in a low, joking tone, dramatically rolling his eyes a little and crossing his arms over his chest, but grinning all the same, "Did you hear what I said about the project?"
"Nope, not a damn thing," Till replies shamelessly, his voice muffled from inside his folded arms, "If you expect me to listen to what you're saying you gotta mention at the beginning that I'm meant to be paying attention and you're gonna quiz me on the content after," It's only half a lie— Till was listening, just not to the words Ivan was saying, it was to the music Ivan's voice spontaneously conjures in his mind when Till listens to it half-focused. Nothing weird or unusual there. Everybody compulsively hears the most soothing, beautiful music they've ever heard when their best friend speaks, right? Right.
"Till, you are actively a member of our group for the project and class just ended not even 10 minutes ago; we're all crowded around your desk starting to make an outline our concept and you're already off the boat? You're unreal," Ivan says in blatantly negative astonishment.
Till hears Acorn's signature scoff from somewhere relatively to his left, the view of which is currently obscured by his arms, "Nah, I don't think Till ever got on the boat in the first place."
"See, he gets it," Till muffles into his arms again, pointing to approximately where he assumes Acorn to be with one hand approvingly without lifting his body from the desk, "At least someone understands me."
Till closes his tired eyes automatically so he can't properly appreciate the full extent his reproach, but Ivan rolls his eyes more thoroughly than before and suddenly leans forward to aggressively ruffle Till's hair, earning a very amusing strangled noise from him. Ivan laughs softly while Till boxes him dispassionately like a flustered cat, clicking his tongue in satisfaction.
"Well," Ivan says loudly, heaving a big performative sigh, "I suppose I'll take pity on your poor, unfortunate soul and just repeat myself out of the kindness of my heart when I come over this weekend to bully you into working on it, as usual."
"Wow, you'd go that far for little old me? Thank you, your majesty, you're too kind," Till retaliates dryly, scowling deeply at Ivan while trying far less than halfheartedly to smooth his permanently messy hair. There's a dark green vignette in his vision, the unwelcome personal signature of Irritation.
"Honestly Till, you are lucky Ivan puts up with your lazy ass. He's the best in the class, y'know? Has been since, oh, I don't know, forever," Acorn's tone suddenly completely flattens upon realizing his next sentiment, "I'd say people would probably offer to pay him to tutor them because he's so damn smart, but there's no "probably", that objectively has happened— but he always refuses them, yet, here he is, the one reaching out to help you. You should be more grateful to have a friend like him,"
Before Till gets a chance to tell Acorn to shove it and show him where he asked, Ivan cuts in, "It's okay, Acorn, I always find a way to make Till make it up to me. After all, he knows he can't actually afford to make an enemy out of me; I know too much about him. Don't I, Tilly?"
Between the shine of mischief in his dark eyes and Ivan’s playful grin, Till’s chest tightens and burns with affection and it feels like powerful forest vines are twisting around him. His eyes project separate ambient glowing auras of pink and green filling the room and he wants to stand up so fast he knocks the desk over and kiss that smug grin off Ivan’s annoying, gorgeous face, but that would generally be frowned upon for multiple reasons. He clenches his teeth so hard his jaw aches trying to repress the urge.
To distract from the painful longing, Till leans into the part of him that's truly annoyed, "Oh, we're bragging about the blackmail now, are we? Where's the press when I need them? 'Star Student Secretly Mafia Boss In Training', I'm an exploited minor, you should go to prison," he says as flatly as possible as he pushes himself back from the desk, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as it goes. He stands up and lethargically starts adorning his jacket and slings his bag over his shoulder, the tightening in his chest growing while he desperately tries to distract from the rapid influx of mental images of all of the things he wishes Ivan did to make him make things up to him all the time.
"Aw, Tilly, you're so mean. I'm too pretty for prison. Would you seriously want to keep this face locked away from the public forever? Don't you think that's a little unfair?" Ivan frames his face with both hands like he's posing for the paparazzi, flashing his beautiful smile, infuriatingly perfect except the sharp snaggletooth on his left side, which everyone calls his "charm point", a term that seems to mean something to everyone else but is completely lost on Till. Till is caught somewhere between wanting to knock Ivan's lights out and kiss him senseless, so he fails to come up with an adequate comeback, resigning to simply rolling his eyes and waving back vaguely as he exits the classroom.
Once the door closes behind him his pace picks up rapidly, trying to create enough distance quickly enough that Ivan and Acorn’s voices will be too muffled for the music to start up again when Ivan inevitably continues talking to him about the project before they both head home. Till feels like hearing the music start again might break his heart completely, and he really, really doesn’t want to be caught crying in the hallway— again.
Ivan is too pretty for prison, but that's also precisely why he needs to be in prison. He's too pretty for everyone else in all of society as far as Till is concerned, but he and Till are just friends. Till knows he has no right to feel jealous, especially when Ivan isn't even dating anyone right now, but just the thought of everyone else looking at Ivan makes his teeth ache, and the vivid orange and unbearable sensation of being sticky cling to him anyway.
Till starts biting his nails absentmindedly, barely able to maintain enough focus on the tangible world to keep from running into the wall multiple times as he exits the maze of the school halls to head home, heart racing painfully in his chest, a miasma of dark green and red swirling around his ankles. He feels like he could cry again, but this time its not because the music has ended, it's because he knows it won't start back up until he hears Ivan speak again, and because nothing feels more comforting and safe than that, it's painful to be without it. The earliest he'll have the opportunity to hear it again, though, is tomorrow morning, and he doesn't want to wait that long, but it can't be helped.
—That, and Ivan's devastatingly gorgeous smile and entire face and the whole irritatingly perfect rest of him are going to be on display in his mind's eye for the bare minimum of the next several hours and he knows he's too tired for the guilt to adequately shame him out of jerking off to the visual memory of all of Ivan's playful, mischievous expressions aimed directly at him the minute he steps inside his bedroom door whenever he gets home.
Hearing the cello doesn't make him feel guilty; seeing the rich, dark blues at the corners of his vision and watching a meteor shower over the blazing sky in his mind don't make him feel guilty; smelling baked goods, sweet syrups, and hint of coffee don't make him feel guilty… but the compulsive mental images of Ivan's eyes with creases around them from smiling at Till, the simulated moonlight outlining his jaw, clavicle, fingertips, and the curve of his waist; the phantom sensation of Ivan's warm, soft skin, the way Till's mind works like a sound mixer and far too easily supplies him with samples of Ivan saying his name in much less innocent tones and pitches— those are a different story, one his brain has been extremely determined to tell more than one night a week for what must be over a year or three by now.
I am so fucked, Till thinks miserably, rubbing his hands over his face again. Fucked in all the ways he can be except for the one he wants.
—
However long he spent in the deep magenta throes of his extremely normal fantasies about his best friend, two absolutely stellar orgasms, a subsequent hour-long meltdown about what a terrible, pathetic person he is (which always feels like being suffocated by heavy velvet curtains soaked in red wine), a quick shower, & a homemade iced Americano he has absolutely no business having this late in the day later, Till's phone lights up on his nightstand.
He sighs heavily, tapping the icon on his phone to put Ivan on speaker while he gets things out of his backpack, the phantom sensation of his feet getting caught in brambles cropping up again instantly. Swamped up to his calves in dark green that isn't really there, he immediately he starts to respond to what he already knows Ivan is about to say, "Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry for being an ass earlier, I appreciate the he--"
"Are your nightmares getting worse again?"
Okay, incorrect. That is not what he thought Ivan was going to say.
Till blinks in surprise, letting go of his backpack and standing still a moment while he processes Ivan's question. He flops back onto his bed, looking up at the ceiling and starts to chew his lips pensively, trying to decide how to respond. Dark blue begins to creep into the edges of his vision but it's not the good dark blue— Ivan's special dark blue, which gives Till the sensation of floating weightless in the placid deep sea, looking up at the sky from far below where it's perfectly quiet and dark; the harsh light of the sun far away and irrelevant, enveloped so securely, giving him the greatest sense of peace he's ever known— it's the bad dark blue, antithetic to Ivan's— the routine sensation of being caught alone in the open ocean, trapped in a tempest that threatens to pull him in by the undertow and throw his bones into the belly of the deep when he's anxious.
As is the case for everyone, Ivan's voice sounds so different on the phone, but one very fortunate thing for the Till of today is that he never lost the ability to read Ivan's tone when Ivan is genuinely worried about him. Whether or not Ivan is joking about many serious things or whether or not he means any of the teasing is usually lost on Till, but when Ivan really worries over Till, he always really means it, and it shows in his tone— the one he's speaking in now.
So, considering Till can always tell when he's being sincere about his worry because his voice sounds very different and voices sound different over the phone anyway, right now it’s different twice over so Till notices starkly and is taken aback by it. Till is very proud to be able to tell the difference because he’s confident the nuance is likely completely imperceptible to anyone else. It’s almost like a secret he shares with Ivan, it’s just not one Ivan keeps intentionally… right?
Till suddenly feels unsure but really doesn't want to further explore the concept of Ivan sharing it with anyone else or anyone else understanding Ivan the way he does. Besides, first of all, it's impossible, because they've been best friends as long as either of them can remember; if anyone's going to understand Ivan it would be Till and Till himself doesn't actually feel confident he even understands Ivan all that well, so how the hell could someone else? Second of all, he couldn't guarantee the other person's safety and well-being if they tried to get closer to Ivan the way Till is because Ivan is his best friend, it's other people's responsibility to respect that boundary, and Till isn't responsible for whatever happens to them if they don't. That's just reasonable. Everyone is that protective of their best friend; you have a special place in each other's heart so of course you'd protect that no matter what it takes, right? Right.
"No mother, I'm fine," Till says in a performative amused and cheerful tone, "Thank you for asking, though, I appreciate the concern," After a beat, Till sighs dramatically wistfully, his smile audible in his voice, "If only every son had a mother as kind and caring as you, the world would truly be a better place."
He desperately hopes Ivan takes the bait and drops the subject, but of course he isn't that lucky. Ivan doesn't drop it. Till is screwed, and not in the good way.
"Do you want me to try reading to you again? That used to work sometimes," Ivan’s tone is certainly worried about him, but the other aspects of it aren't so easy to figure out. It sounds like Ivan’s disappointed in him, but, while he feels like that’s not quite right, he doesn’t know what is right, and it's too awkward to ask because he feels so stupid for not getting it automatically like everyone else seems to. Till’s felt increasingly less capable of interpreting Ivan’s tone as they've gotten older because Ivan spends so much time teasing him and joking around and masking how he really feels on purpose. It’s hard to discern if Ivan is serious or not and Till already doubts himself chronically as it is. Being able to tell when Ivan is sincerely worried about him is different from being able to tell if Ivan's disappointed in him or not. After Till doesn't respond for a moment, Ivan continues, "I need to read for class anyway, so unless my voice sounds really annoying or something, there's no reason not to give it a shot, right?"
Till's chest instantly tightens painfully at the suggestion, his reaction so visceral he turns towards his phone unnecessarily, "It's not annoying! Why would it be annoying?"
"I don't know, you tell me. You're the one not listening to me when I talk half the time," Okay, something is definitely wrong. Ivan’s sounding actively flippant and most certainly sounds disappointed in him now, and that hurts a lot, especially when Ivan revels in being a prick on purpose half the time.
"How are you even saying that to me when you know damn well you say shit you know I don't want to hear on purpose sometimes? Why would you expect anyone to even want to listen to you when you talk when you do that shit, especially because you do it on purpose? I swear, you have the self-awareness of a fucking bowl of cereal, Ivan, but for the record, I usually am listening to you whether I even want to or not. Somehow I still manage to give a fuck what you say, because, despite how you treat me, you're still my best friend."
Till already cried so much earlier during his meltdown so his eyes sting as he feels the tears starting to form again. Aside from Ivan having his head up his own ass and painfully lacking self-awareness, Ivan would probably just make fun of him if Till tried to explain that his greed knows no bounds and if Ivan isn't explicitly speaking to him and him alone, his brain generally prefers the state of auditory free-fall where Ivan's words translate into music only Till can hear. Till just prefers it being just the two of them in any scenario, but they objectively can't exist in a world that's just the two of them, and Ivan's just his best friend, anyway. Till doesn't know why he's such a freak, but he does feel pretty confident Ivan will tease him for it— Ivan teases him about everything else, after all, so what's one more thing?— so he's never tried to talk to Ivan about the music… or the colours, sounds, images, scents, or anything else. It feels like he has an anchor sitting on his sternum.
"And since you apparently have the fluctuations of my nightmare disorder symptoms clocked so well, why the hell are you acting like you don't know perfectly well by now how my ADHD works when I know you do?” Till tries to steady the wavering in his voice, “Friendly reminder that I'm stupid and my brain doesn't work and I don't always realize you're including me in a conversation. Even if it's intuitive to you, it's not always intuitive to me, so you have to explicitly make sure you have my attention first. It's the same thing it's always been; it's not personal to you, you know it's not personal to you, how long have you known me? Is this a joke? Of course, I listen to you when you talk, I just have to be aware you're talking to me, that isn't new. What do you want me to do, be sorry for having a neurological disorder? What are you even talking about…" Till’s voice trails off, his insecurity is certainly palpable and it’s humiliating.
He chews his lip and waits for Ivan to respond, blinking away the little tears as they come, and the longer Ivan doesn't respond, the more humiliated Till feels for getting upset… and he's suddenly realizing with great horror that was probably Ivan's goal in the first place, just to get a rise out of him, to make him upset on purpose because Ivan finds how reactive Till is just so hilarious. After several moments of silence, Ivan still doesn't respond, which, in Till's mind, basically confirms that Ivan most likely didn't even mean what he said about Till not listening to him when he talks, he was just trying to make Till upset for fun, which worked, which is absolutely infuriating and humiliating beyond belief. There's so many colours swirling distorted in the dim light reflected in Till's tears, he's feeling so many things at once it's just like watching a painting melt, it's ugly and sad.
The worst part is that despite what a douchebag he is, Ivan still noticed his nightmares were getting worse without Till even bringing it up. The physical symptoms of him having the disorder in the first place are objectively telling and Till never stops having them— the dark circles under his eyes, poor posture, chronic fatigue, attention issues even on top of his ADHD, daytime sleeping, the works, so for Ivan to notice they're worse, and has even gone out of his way to call Till and ask if he can help because he's genuinely worried, which Till feels secure about— that means so much to Till he could cry (in a positive way, for once).
Ivan can't resist being an asshole for 5 minutes, but he still genuinely cares and that means the world to Till, who has basically no friends outside of Ivan, and even Ivan being his friend feels tenuous sometimes. Till is tired of not being able to tell if Ivan likes him or not because Ivan doing things like dual wielding bullying behavior and best friend behavior in the same damn phone call. It's exhausting and Till is already chronically exhausted and he has just about had it.
"I don't owe you an apology," Till says firmly, a little proud of his own confidence, which is manifesting from absolutely nowhere except perhaps the seat of rage he feels whenever he perceives he's being treated unfairly, "I'm amazed you even have the audacity to get an attitude with me about not listening to you when, best friend or not, you're still a bully by definition. You probably don't even mean what you said and you're just stringing me along as usual because you think upsetting me is so funny, but for the record, even though it's probably not even true and I don't owe it to you, somehow I am still actually sorry for making you feel like shit by accident, even though you don't ever seem to be even remotely sorry for making me feel like shit on purpose."
"For some strange reason, I don't genuinely want to hurt you even though I sure have every right to because of all the shit you've done to me. Lucky for you, you're besties with someone who's really fucking stupid and probably going to put up with being your endlessly abused source of entertainment until I die! I hope I was able to give you what you wanted out of this call, which you were at least gracious enough to feign was for my benefit in the first place." Till knows Ivan wasn't feigning the concern about the nightmares, but he's not nearly emotionally regulated enough to be fair at the moment.
Till sighs heavily, beyond frustrated with himself and Ivan both, shaking from anger and embarrassment, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. The colours are still too muddled to tell apart, and he hates being able to see them when they're ugly like that. The compulsive visual representation of the chaos in his heart which he cannot dispel somehow makes the pain and shame even worse.
"You're not stupid, Till," Ivan's tone is very firm and from somewhere underneath all the anger and hurt he's feeling, there's a pang in Till's heart from feeling loved. How serious Ivan is expressing this sentiment feels reassuring and if Ivan wasn't being such an ass in the first place, Till would benefit from it more.
Till compulsively clenches his jaw. Ivan's response was actually oddly fast and said nearly before Till could finish getting out what he said last, but it's so aggravating Till doesn't get to try to unpack why that might be so. How is Ivan going to fuck with him on purpose and then backpedal when Till's upset by it? What the fuck is that, is he serious?
"Right, I'm not stupid,” Through his tears, Till watches a concentrated bit of dark green jump out from a spot in the ceiling and quickly start to spread across and down the walls like thick forest underbrush is filling up his room, “and that's why you talk about me at school like I'm a pathetic little animal you found on the street that you're taking in because it's just too heartbreaking to let me fail on my own when you know I'd make it with your intervention because you're so capable of doing more than enough for the both of us,"
Till's heart is racing and it hurts but he's rapidly losing what little fuck he has left for Ivan being able to hear that he's crying from over the phone. He's insecure that he’s probably being too mean, he knows he’s probably overreacting and probably just projecting some of his frustration, but he was already dysregulated and he has a bad habit of not being able to stop once he gets started, so he's steamrolling ahead like an asshole, which just makes him more frustrated. Ivan has really learned how to push his buttons with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.
“Even if I assume the best of you in this situation, we're having this whole conversation because you're making house-calls after me like I'm 5 years old because you think you can help poor little me with my sad little nightmares," Till laughs nervously, gesturing helplessly with one hand into the air before running it through his hair, "which is somehow supposed to give me the impression you think there's even one single thing I can do in life without your help, including SLEEP AT NIGHT? Sure, that makes perfect sense," Till's voice audibly breaks a bit at the end and its so humiliating he's biting his lip so hard it hurts. His eyes burn through the tears, causing nauseating swirls in the colors, the green from before drips down on him mixing with the increasing sea of highlighter orange-- a hideous combination visually and emotionally, although quickly being overtaken with a deep, dark red. The humid, bitter-smelling curtains wrap around him and threaten to suffocate him again.
It hurts and its hard to breathe, Till hates himself so much he feels like he could turn inside out-- he hopes the ceiling just caves in and kills him, actually. That would be better for everyone involved. He grits his teeth hard to prevent from fully sobbing, his chest trembling from the effort to regulate his breathing, not able to bring himself to hang up out of shame, feeling like maybe if Ivan says something awful back to him, that'll ease some of the guilt he feels for going off, even if he doesn't feel unjustified in being upset.
Ivan sighs slowly and quietly through the phone, but it takes him another few seconds to say anything. It's not an impatient sigh; Till thinks it might even be remorseful, and maybe it's even shaking a little, but maybe that's wishful thinking. It's processing at the very least.
"Till, I… Hey… Just, cheer up, OK..?” Ivan’s incredibly awkward and clearly unable to find the right words to reply and doesn't know what to say, but his tone has softened and he sounds so warm and comforting and even sounds a little vulnerable, maybe even scared, which Till never hears in Ivan's voice. Till bites one of his hands to prevent himself from sobbing, the gentle thrum of cello playing for a moment feels like a blanket thrown over his back again like always, while soft shades of light orange and yellow filter through his tear-adorned eyelashes almost like gentle sunlight, “...as a wise man once said, 'I don't genuinely want to hurt you'… 'you're still my best friend'... 'I am still sorry for hurting you'…" Ivan quietly laughs, sounding nervous and awkward, presumably attempting to lighten the mood by quoting Till from earlier in the conversation. Ivan pauses naturally to give Till an opportunity to reply, but Till is still indisposed, so Ivan continues,
"About, you not listening to me… I do understand your ADHD and it makes sense when you remind me. I genuinely was frustrated at you for dropping off the radar immediately after class today, but, when you explain what everything is like for you like you have just now, I'd tune somebody out on purpose if they were making me feel this awful all the time... I don't know if you'll believe me or not, but, I really didn't mean to undermine you like this, Till, I mean that."
"…And about your nightmares… I'm sorry for trying too hard to help when you didn't ask. I'm… I'm genuinely doing it because I care, not so I can stroke my own ego, but… I guess I do joke with you all the time in a way that could make it come across that way… It didn't occur to me at all it might be hurting your self-esteem because I thought we were joking, but, if you hear it so much like that, it does makes sense that over time it would start to sound like I really mean it, and that's… awful. It's pretty obvious now that you're pointing it out and I'm ashamed of myself for being so stupid and not noticing at all. I'm sorry for hurting you, Till, I mean it, I really do."
Till was already speechless, but he feels he must've fully slipped into another dimension somehow for Ivan to be apologizing to him so sincerely this way. Was Ivan always this self aware and only just now choosing to be candid with him emotionally? It really doesn't seem like it, but if this is new, why now? Why today? Till would naturally be more inclined to think Ivan was just being more of an asshole than ever and this was all a ruse to get Till to fall for something else, but just like earlier in the day, he can at least tell when Ivan is being sincerely worried. It's always different when it's just the two of them, too, and he sounds like he really means it right now, which is completely unfathomable because Ivan has never done it before. What's different this time that's making Ivan go this far to apologize and mean it? The language processing center in Till's brain is completely offline so he can't reply yet. Fortunately for him, Ivan continues of his own volition anyway.
"I'm really book-smart, but... I've never been so good with people, you know? Not really. Everything I do with others is just what I've learned to do through observation, not what I feel like doing, and it works with them, but… it's different with you, Till. You're different, in a good way, but that means I don't have a script for you… I think my interactions with you are just… blindly seeking your reactivity, with no rules or guidelines, but… rules and guidelines help keep people safe. We've never really established what's "normal" between us…"
The anticipation of having absolutely no idea where Ivan saying such emotionally sympathetic things to him suddenly is headed, or what purpose it may suddenly serve now of all times, is so terrible it's got Till completely keyed up, his heart hasn't stopped racing in over an hour and he can't tell if he's more scared or horny. I'm different, and in a good way no less?? Since when?? Why is Ivan suddenly bringing up the concept of normalcy between them for the first time ever? Ivan seeks his reactivity? Is he delusional or does that sound so suggestive? The hinges of Till's day had started coming off as soon as he got home from school and in just a few short hours somehow it feels like they're fully going to come loose any moment and all he can do is watch the firework show courtesy of his emotions and the rods and cones in his eyes against the background of the increasing darkness of his bedroom in slack-jawed shock.
"I, don't know if I have the right to hope you know I do really care about you, even if I seem like a conceited ass a lot, but I hope you do, because it's the truth. I really care about you, Till. I don't, actually think I do much of anything else, not really… I legitimately did call about the nightmares because I genuinely don't want you to suffer, especially not if I'm able to help. It's really that simple, but now that I know how you've been feeling… I'm sure that sounds completely insane, doesn't it? But it is the truth."
"It's genuinely hard for me to sleep when I think about you lying awake all night in bed by yourself not getting any rest… I don't want to make you feel stupid, Till, not for real. If it's not a joke to you, it's not a joke to me either, okay…? I'm sorry for how much I've hurt you and I hope you can forgive me someday, but I understand if you don't, given how much I've hurt you…"
Now hold on, is Till crazy? Has he officially lost it or did Ivan just say he struggles to sleep at night because he’s preoccupied imagining Till lying awake all night in his bed by himself suffering alone in insomnia hell? Ivan thinks about him at night?? Why?? Is this really the same bastard that's been teasing him for years? Is Ivan straight up possessed? Till can't see the natural shape of anything in his bedroom now that it's gotten so late and he hasn't gotten up to turn the light on, but his emotions are providing the light show of a lifetime so his eyes are open wide in the darkness anyway.
"I'm sure this sounds fake, but, you remember how inhuman I was when I was little? I didn't understand people at all, and obviously, through empirical evidence, I still don't, not even a little, but… I thought your reactions were part of the joke, like, I feel my way about it and you feel your way about it, but we're both having a good time… I feel so stupid and ashamed of myself. I didn't realize you were taking it seriously, Till, but it makes sense that you were because it's been going for years..."
"How did you put up with this pain for so long..? Why did you put up with this pain for so long..? I don't even know how to to live with myself… I… I… really don't know what else to say except I'm sorry, but I'm sure that doesn't mean anything, and I feel, something awful I have no idea how even begin to describe, because it's completely warranted. I'm so afraid of losing you, but I've been pushing you away all along. If I lose you, it's going to be entirely my own fault and I can't think of anything worse than that."
"But… you'll still come to school, right..? I'll… I’ll at least see you tomorrow at school, yeah? Even if you don't talk to me, which I'd understand…I'll just, I'll see you at school… So…" Ivan's voice sounds like it's legitimately breaking and, for once, Till can tell that it's absolutely real, but—
"W-wait," Till strangles out urgently, suddenly very aware of himself after processing the fact that Ivan had said something prompting a response. He rolls onto his side and grips his phone tight with one hand, drying his face roughly with his long sleeve on the other. Ivan hums inquisitively awaiting further instruction, the hum itself broken and very uncharacteristically vulnerable. Pale green fades in and out of Till's vision despite the darkness.
"I, I shouldn't've fucking said anything, of course you give a shit about me," Till starts, cringing at how nasal his voice sounds from his nose being clogged from crying so much, "I'm just an insecure bastard with an inferiority complex and I'm sorry. Forget everything I just said or just fucking, kill me or something for it later, I dunno, whatever, just... I know I suck but, will you… will you still read to me anyway..? Please?"
Holy shit, I love whatever the hell is wrong with him right now, Till thinks incredulously, still stunned and both trying to keep up with everything Ivan has said and also burn every word of it into the folds of his brain forever. He doesn't know how to do that at all but he's sure about to give it his absolute best anyway. He's not actually going back on anything he said whatsoever and he's going to beat Ivan to death with a hammer later if Ivan takes him at his word on what he just said dismissing himself even though it would he his own fault if Ivan did take him at his word, he just feels desperately that he needs to keep Ivan talking right now somehow because if this is real and he hangs up now, that might be the end of it, and he never, ever wants this conversation to end, and if it's a dream, he's not even remotely ready to wake up, and kind of hopes he never does.
"Till, don't say that. It’s my fault things are like this between us… I'm the one always joking around and teasing you, and… making you feel every bad way there even is to feel, apparently… It's true that I like how reactive you are and I find it really fun because I'm not like that, but… it's probably also because I'm not like that that I didn't know it was really hurting you, Till, I really didn't… and I'm sorry."
"It all feels so obvious when you say it but with my autism it's really hard to understand how my actions realistically impact others. I wish you had told me you were seriously hurting sooner, but… you probably didn't think I'd take you seriously or that I'd just tease you more if you tried, and that's… awful. That's horrifying to me and I don't want you to be feeling that way. I care about you and I don't want to hurt you for real. You probably don't believe me and that's warranted, but… You don't suck, Till, and I don't want you to die, much less kill you myself…"
"…If you'll still let me try to read to you, though… If you think it can be good, I'd like to, but… you don't need to dismiss yourself like that to get me to stay, okay..?"
"Okay…." Till replies reflexively in completely astonished awe, the cogs in his brain feel like turtles stampeding through peanut butter with the way his thoughts are chugging because Ivan acting accountable for his actions is absolutely surreal. Till suddenly recalls his own prior comment to Ivan, "just because it's obvious to you doesn't mean it's obvious to me" and wants to kick himself into next year. Holy hell, how are they this dysfunctional? Is simply talking really that hard? Do other BEST friends go through this same completely nightmarish amount of miscommunication? If this is what best friends go through, Till shudders at the thought of what the hell regular friends must go through, much less everyone on Earth in general having to experience the horrors the way he has and deeply hopes that's not the case.
Till's chest aches with affection the same way as it did in the afternoon hearing the way Ivan's tone brightens by the upward pitch in his pensive hum in response to Till's confirmation, and the color in Till's vision gradually starts turning pink again— safe.
"Thank you for giving me another chance, Till. I hope this helps, but even if it doesn't, thank you for letting me try… Really, thank you… Alright, let's see… Omitting what I know you'd find interesting— namely, music and visual arts— what's more likely to bore you to sleep: 16th century European history, geometrical theorems, the laws of thermodynamics, 18th century literature—"
"Okay, first of all, fuck you and your smart-ass bougie classes, I didn't process half of whatever the hell you just said," Till laughs and sniffs, his voice starting to clear up, but still on the pathetically nasal side.
"Better a smartass than a dumbass, though, don't you think?" Ivan teases on the other end.
Till can feel his smug bastard grin from over the phone and he wants to strangle Ivan to death and kiss that smirk right off his stupid, insufferably handsome face, possibly at the same time. He suddenly gets the sensation that if he was using a daisy for the "he loves me, he loves me not" game, doing it for Ivan his options would realistically be more along the lines of "Ivan finally goes and fucks himself like I've been telling him to do for years, I finally go and fuck Ivan myself like I've been telling myself to do for years". Both sound immensely satisfying.
"Second of all, European history, hands down. I could not give a FUCK less what the fuck Poland or Norway or France or whoever did in whenever-the-fuck-that-was. I don't even know where Switzerland is on a MAP. I wasn't alive back then, all that shit is NONE of my business. Brain immediately goes offline, zip!"
Ivan's laugh on the other end of the line is bright like starlight, Till smiles through fresh tears watching the stars fall behind his eyelids, envisioning Ivan's beautiful smile and equally beautiful Everything Else.
"The 16th century was—"
"SNNZZZZZ," Till imitates a snoring sound as loudly and obnoxiously as he can, "Honkk shoo, honkk shoooo, mimimimi— look, it's working already, I'm already asleep! You're a miracle worker, Ivan! I'm cured!" Till plugs his phone in, puts it back on his nightstand, and changes the call to go into his headphones so he rest better and hear Ivan's voice— and the cello it calls forth from the void that will play automatically like clockwork— more clearly.
Ivan laughs twice as loud and twice as long and Till is smiling so hard his face hurts— both the physical sensation and the bright lime green in his vision, reminiscent of sour green apple candy— thinking, to some degree, he actually might be cured.