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More than anything, what Till wanted to be was loved.
Till himself was capable of loving, sure, he knew that much. Till loved like a fire loved the fuel that kept it alive. It kept him alive too. Kept him creating. Even when he should have given up.
But to make firewood, you have to rip a stick off the branch of a tree. To venerate an idol, you have to create an unchanging image. Memories of pages filled with nothing but doodles of pink hair and honey-colored eyes come rushing back to him. His fuel, his idol.
People aren’t like that, Till realizes. People aren’t like that at all. Art and music are easy. A finished drawing doesn’t change. Music doesn’t say anything it doesn’t mean. But people grow. People change. Sometimes in ways you don’t expect.
Sometimes people change because they’re no longer hiding from you. The memories of his childhood in Anakt Garden alongside Ivan, Mizi, and the others rush back, and Till shudders with anger. If he really had felt that way about Till all this time, why did Ivan constantly provoke him? They were always fighting, always tussling over the smallest things. Till was just doing it for Mizi.
Now that he thinks of it, everything has been for Mizi. Maybe that’s the problem. Till spent so much time crafting the perfect portrait of Mizi that his drawings of others went neglected. And Till had never realized it until Ivan moved outside his portrait’s lines.
The anger comes back and Till balls his hands into fists. Why the hell would he do that? Would he really rather die than admit his feelings? If he really felt something for Till, why did he always try to fight him? But at the same time, when Ivan gently cupped his cheek before the kiss, it was so tender. gentle, even. Had Ivan been that tender with Till before? How many small acts of affection went unnoticed by Till’s eyes? Thinking about it just makes Till feel angrier.
If he really wanted to have something, he would have been open about it. About his tenderness. But the idea of it, the idea of someone being so gentle with him— it made warmth spread across Till’s chest. Painfully so, almost. Like he knew he’d never experience that tenderness again.
Because what Till wanted more than anything was to be loved. All those fucking aliens, his whole life, have treated Till like shit. No better than a dog. As a kid, Till was always battered and bruised, and never shown kindness from any source. But Mizi…
Mizi was always kind. She always wanted everyone to be happy. She was a hopeful person. It was admirable. Of course Till would fall for a girl like that. Mizi was kind to him, so Till had dedicated his life to her.
If Ivan was kind to him too, would he have been a better person? Would he have fallen in love with Mizi? Would he have been able to see people as more than the portraits he drew of them? Would he not have been such a fool?
It’s pointless to think of the what-ifs. Till knows that. It didn’t help the first time, when Mizi vanished. The nightmares of pink hair marred with blood and gore from that time make him clench his fist tighter.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been such an idiot. Ivan was always looking at him. With his eyes that looked like falling into the heart of an abyss. Always gazing at him like he was the brightest star in orbit. Like even amongst countless meteorites, Ivan’s eyes would still be trained on Till. It tore him up inside to think of it. He should have looked back.
Maybe if he had just looked back, Till could’ve loved Ivan too.