Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To say this moment shouldn't be taking place was an understatement. Ivan was never meant to survive, that's why he jumped off a 13 story apartment complex. He didn't want to wake up. He didn't deserve to. So when he inevitably opened his eyes, it didn't feel like relief, it felt like a gruesome gut punch. It felt like someone was mocking him by not letting even this, a preplanned death, go according to how he wants.

His senses woke up before his sight. He was in a hospital, that much he could figure out. His bed was stiffer than a cutting board, making each movement feel impossibly more painful, but that might just be Ivans body. His arms were tied down with smooth leather straps to the metal bars on the sides of the bed. They must've thought he was unstable. Crazy. Unpredictable. Ivan hated it, being treated so lowly by others. His nose inhaled the sickly sterile scent of any average hospital, the kind that reminds you of why you are here. That you are sick physically and even mentally.

The room was well lit up, nearly blinding anyone who decided to open their eyes. Ivan squinted against the source of the light, taking in his surroundings with his own eyes. It was devoid of almost any color, walls and floor painted white, with long standard ceiling lights that seemed to flicker slightly. It wasn't anything fancy, not that he expected it to be. A few shelves were stacked high with medicine, needles, bandages and all other standard medical tool you can usually find in a hospital, visible through the glass doors. A few of them were even left open, as if someone in a rush had left them like that instead of closing or locking them in place.

He didn't remember how he got here, how could he possibly? His last memories were of him, on the roof, getting closer to the edge and stepping off, his final goodbye to the cruel world he knew. The rest after that was a blank slate, waiting to be filled in. Like a radio channel stuck in static, there was only so much he could try to tune before realizing he couldn't salvage most of the unintelligible bits. Besides that, he only knew the reason he did it. He didn't deserve to live, not after what he did. Not after what he did to Andrew.

Andrew.

The name tasted bittersweet in his mouth, like candy that's too sweet. He wanted to spit it out and forget the taste.

Ivan was getting overstimulated. It was suffocating, strapped to a bed, in a deserted room where all the other patients slept undisturbed, and he needed some fresh air. Badly. He wiggled his hands in their restrains, managing to pull them out without much effort, them being loose around his wrists. He slid off the thin blanket that was on his body, his bare feet touching the cold floor. It sent a shiver down his spine, like the time he woke up on Christmas Eve and dragged his feet all the way to the couch to blast the TV.

Like when Andrew said he was leaving as a present.

The thoughts were sickening. He felt a thick taste of bile in his throat, souring his taste buds. He felt like vomiting. Ivans hands moved too quickly, fumbling with the IV needles and wires connecting to the monitors, stripping them away in a hurry. One of them ripped out too violently but he doesn't care. He moves silently in the halls, avoiding the curious glances of the hospital workers that inevitably pass him by as he navigates as best as he can. He limps through the halls, crashing into the nearest wall with a window. He cracked it open, sticking his head out and breathing in and out deeply. It was still so very cold outside, with a few snowflakes crashing down. It was still winter, still snowing.

His hands gripped the window still, white knuckled, as he tried to collect himself and his thoughts. He jumped off, he definitely did. Why else would he be here, strapped to a bed? Ivans head was filled with questions now.

How did he survive? The building was 8 stories, there should be no way of making the jump. His legs would be shattered, his body nothing more but a splotch of blood and gore on the sidewalk next to his apartment building. He should have been gone, just like his father. The tumor should have been dead, it can't survive without a host. He was supposed to take it down with him, to kill himself and prevent anyone from ever suffering because of him again.

Andrew didn't deserve what I did to him. The tumor was supposed to die with me.

A knot began to form in Ivans throat. It was preventing him from taking any more air, letting his guilt sink in. Ivan was suffocating, his right hand clutched his mouth, pressing his lips tightly shut, as another wave of incoming vomit was trying to spill out past his lips. He felt the unshed tears behind his eyelids, feeling his eyes watering up. He wiped them quickly with his fingers, twisting with his back against the wall, sinking down to the floor with his knees against his chest. He didn't deserve to cry. He was the worst person alive, the tumor could still be eating away at his brain even now. Andrew had the right to cry. Or his mom, for seeing how her son turned out. Even his dad, if he weren't dead, would've cried with disappointment at how things turned out.

He breathed in, the knot in his neck swelling and twisting as he tried to calm down and clear his head. Despite the pain, feeling his larynx almost exploding from the pressure, he stops and searches through his head. The tumor wasn't dead. It wouldn't be until Ivan was six feet under. So he started to roam, looking through each and every corner of his mind for it. They were hiding somewhere, eating away at him until history repeated itself, he knew with certainty. He didn't want to confront it again, not after seeing the damage it did last time. But he had to, and with a heavy heart he pushed on, feeling himself spiral downwards yet again.

He sat for what felt like hours, crouched against that cold hospital wall, trying to make himself small and insignificant. He looked up, the scenery familiar, but in an uncanny way. The hospital hallway seemed to stretch on forever with no end in sight. All the lights were on, there was no darkness where the tumor could hide. Ivan stood up and started walking with urgency, checking door after door after door after door. There is nothing behind any them no matter how far he goes.

He jumped despite there being nothing- the tumor was still scary. He looked over his shoulder about a dozen times, feeling himself watched, but being met only with nothing. The more he walked, the more Ivan didn't want to look for it, didn't want to think about it, didn't even want to lock it up or anything. He just needed to see it was still here, because he knew it was. He needed to be certain.

The sharp pain in his leg became more numb the more he walked but he learned to ignore it in favor of the search. The hall felt empty, like no one was there to chase him or scare him off. It was all the same, a sterile white floor, white cold walls, small doors from time to time with measured intervals between them with polished silver handles and a small plaque on each of them with a number that grew bigger and bigger with each passing one. When he opened them, they weren't locked, but there was nothing there for him mind to construct. It opened straight into a wall with no cracks, like it had just been built, smelling of fresh dried paint and solid brick. It was eerie, being stuck in an infinite hallway with no end and nothing else for miles.

He sometimes sprinted from one another, like if he moved fast or in an unpredictable way, the tumor wouldn't be able to hide and build these walls that stopped him, that he could catch it off guard somehow no mater how impossible it seemed. It was all futile, after hours of checking, of walking the endless corridor with no turns or changes, he felt tired. It was a routine, and there was no end goal here. He turns back and the window is right there, as if he never walked away from it for a single moment.

In the end, he found nothing, a thought that only fueled his anxiety. The tumor could be anywhere and he didn't know. Who knows where it could be? He shivered at the thought, at the mere possibility of it. He would do it again. He would end up slowly killing himself one way or another if this kept going. It felt like brutal torture, and worse, Ivan had no guarantee if it was true. It was like waking up from a deep sleep with a blindfold on, waiting to see if you're safe or if you'll be attacked before it's too late.

Ivans eyes squint to focus on the far end of the now perfectly normal hall, his gaze reaching the door he exited in his pursuit of finding a window. It felt impossibly far away, like a tedious journey that is necessary but still disliked. A sharp pain bit in his flesh, reminding him of his current state, but he presses on, determined to reach it an find rest on the uncomfortable mattress, something he now preferred over the cold hospital floor.

He stands up to walk back to his bed. His leg is bleeding on the floor through his hospital gown, running crimson through the already stained fabric with the soft sound of drip-drops as they fell. He didn't want to be seen like this, near a freezing window, a probably broken leg, bleeding out on the floor. He grips the edge of the window, forcing himself to stand still.

You got all the way here. You can manage standing up and walking back.

His mind keeps screaming thoughts at him and Ivan shuts all of them up. Leaving the bed may be something he's regretting now, but it was necessary then to stop his body from choking on it's own vomit so it was worth it. He would rather walk a little limp than feel that gross. His eyes fixate on the far end of the hallway, finding the path back to his room with his eyes.

It felt distant and blurry and- shit was he losing that much blood already? Ivans attention turns back to the gash on his leg, open and dripping blood down his foot now. Remains of what used to be stitches were now ripped apart, revealing the disgusting gore on his own body. It was fine, Ivan had imagined and almost felt things far more painful and nauseating in his own head. The only thing bothering him was the smell. He scrunched his nose up in defiance. It stung his senses, invading him like an unwilling guest. It made him want to puke again but not quite, leaving him on the brink of discomfort with no real consequences.

He pushed his safe and healed leg in front of the other, mirroring the motion when it's the other legs turn. He tried to be quicker with the motion when he was supporting himself on the bad foot, causing him to falter and limp helplessly. His hand caresses the wall, drifting across it like a rough caress. His fingers flex around nothing in particular when he feels the pain getting particularly worse, as if trying to grip the wall from somewhere without having anything to latch onto. He leaves a faint red trail behind as he moves on the ground, soon evidenced by a bloody foot print that stepped in its own dripping mess.

You need to get back. You have to keep walking, you idiot. You-

"Excuse me, sir. Please let me help you with that, you look like you're in a lot of pain."

The voice snaps Ivan out of his trance, causing his eyes to adjust to the new figure in his line of sight, one he probably tuned out far too focused on the quest of walking without falling. She seems like a nice nurse, with yellow and clear skin, wearing a shirt and a pair of pants, both a muted blue color, probably the hospital uniform. She smiles with concern, her thin- if not nonexistent- eyebrows arched up in alarm as she quickly notices Ivans problem on his leg. Beside her is a wheelchair she dragged over, clean and unused yet.

"Please take a seat, I will carry you back to your room and have your assigned doctor redo your stitches." She says while grabbing his hand, guiding him into the seat. He takes it quickly, a bit reluctant in his head, but it was better than limping around. Her hand is firm, trained with experience in the industry. The chair is nothing too classy, a standard model used for all patients until they heal. He settles in its seat, the upholstery rubbing against his exposed legs with an unpleasant texture. "Do you remember which room number you were assigned?" the concerned lady asks, Dana, he reads from the nametag stuck to her chest in a clumsy way. It would be weird to address her by name he feels, so he sticks to the usual formalities.

"...I think it was the one on the far end of the hallway." Ivans voice is low, not wanting to bother the other visitors and patients that loitered the space around them. Only now he started feel a red searing shame crawling up his neck, thinking how disturbing he must've looked to them, limping while bleeding all over the floor, with no shoes or proper clothes. He tried to shake it off, but his mind kept reeling it back in, not even daring to look up in fear of seeing all these people staring at him.

Dana the nurse visibly stiffens up, like he just told her something completely unexpected. Her eyes look to the door pointed out by him, as if double checking to see if her memory has failed her. When she speaks, it feels like the second gut punch of the day.

"I'm sorry, mister, are you sure? That room is reserved for our comatose patients." Her voice is trying to be kind, but he can tell the cogs are turning in her head, making sense of what his story might be. She seemed nosey enough to ask, so before she makes a move, Ivan answers first.

"Yes, I'm sure. When I woke up all the patients were sleeping too. It was eerie so I got up to leave for fresh air." He speaks quickly, trying his best to put an end to this conversation and get out of here. The incriminating trail of blood led right back to him and he didn't want to be stared in that moment.

"I see. I'll take you to one of our vacant normal hospital rooms then." She nods, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair to push Ivan around.

She took him to the front desk with the elevator, asking which room was available. Luckily he overheard a number that wasn't on the previous floor, being spared the embarrassment of having to come face to face with his bloody mess until it was cleaned. His room number turned out to be on the ground floor actually, since he was in a wheelchair. Something told Ivan other factors might've played a role in the decision but he ignores it for now.

His chair is rolled to a medium sized room, more dim and normally lit than the one he woke up in. It was sparsely furnished, but he supposed it would be enough. This bed was 10 times more comfortable, clearly more high tech than modern than the standard one. An elongated window stretched across the wall opposite from the door, with a few light armchairs that could be moved around. Another cabinet of medical junk covered almost the whole wall that faced the bed, with a little table and small sink squished to the side.

He settled into the bed, one of his assigned doctors placing him under anesthesia and resewing his stitches. When he woke up, he finally got the full list of his defects. A broken right leg, a dislocated shoulder that got fixed as soon as he arrived at the hospital but still needed rehabilitation, severe damage to the spine and neck, but no fractures luckily, 5 broken fingers, 2 on his right and three on his left hands, and a huge concussion. The cherry on top was the doctor shedding light on the situation.

Turns out, Ivan was right. He jumped off an 8 story building and miraculously survived with what could be considered minimal injuries in this case. He somehow landed the fall in a trash bin that was positioned in the front of the building, filled with plastic trash bags of clothes and paper and an old mattress. Someone had noticed the fall as it was happening, one of the neighbors, and called emergency services.

Ivan had been in a coma for 1 and a half months.

He sat there, taking it all in, absorbing the details. Each one landed harder than the previous, making his head spin and hurt. The doctors left soon after, handing him the belongings they found in his apartment that might be of use to him, a phone, a charger and his journal.

Ivan stared at the falling snow, seeing it land with grace and elegance on the window glass, melting on impact. He felt jealous for the first time since he woke up, seeing them crashing down with their effortless beauty. They had never struggled like Ivan had. He sat and pondered them for a long time. The snowflakes couldn't be blamed for it. They couldn't help it, that's how they were created.

All his thoughts kept circling back to Andrew, to how talented he was and how badly Ivan hurt him for it. The guilt only grew, but despite his conflict the snow never stopped falling. He wondered if Andrew was fine, if he kept going despite what happened. Ivan hoped he did.

Chapter Text

His eyes open with the first few rays of sunlight as they protrude through his big window, with curtains that are halfway drawn. He groggily gets up, stretching his arms, straightening his back, popping his joints into place in case they were tense from his slumber. The room is cozy and inviting, a little place that reflects his soul and essence. The walls are a muted dark green color, contrasted by light green plants in pots of various shapes and sizes that crowd around the window and along the walls, some of them placed on high cupboards, letting long vines to slither down. The cupboards aren't the cleanest, a few of them clearly less cared for than others, but he knows his way around them without issue. It paints the portrait of a young man who learned to find comfort in himself.

He picks out his clothes for the day, a usual outfit that represents him, a way to reflect. His wardrobe is left open after he finishes, after all no one is here to intrude on him. From the top of his nightstand, he takes the brush and runs it through his hair, styling it more neatly. His hair is still fairly messy, a wild beast he can't tangle no matter how hard he tries.

To the side, a beige painted door awaits him. It pushes open with ease allowing him to enter the bathroom, the place of his newfound sacred ritual.

He begins the routine with turning on the tap water, putting on toothpaste on his brush and cleaning his teeth, making sure they are thoroughly sparkling white. He got it for a discount at the corner shop, the man refused to buy those futuristic electric toothbrushes, the kinds you see advertised in commercials on TV as premium brushes and then stop working after a week. His teeth used to be yellow, but he managed to fix them after a few months of cleaning them with this efficient traditional one, making it an essential step in his ritual. Next, he rinses his mouth with water and than mouthwash, checking his breath twice- you can never be too careful about bad sleep breath. With careful movements, he washes his face with a special cream for skin, to keep it from breaking out with acne that he never got rid of even after puberty somehow. Lasty, he joins his hands to catch the water and splashes his face at least three times, to make sure he woke up properly.

He stands up and wipes his face, turning to the mirror to give himself a good look.

His name is Andrew. He wears a pristine white shirt with the letters "WIN" written in black on it along with his pants, colored a funky green, his usual choice in clothing since he loves plants so much. For the past couple of days- even a month he could brag- his life has been finally stabilizing to a certain degree. With a steady workflow schedule, a small apartment he can actually afford and nobody to take his peace away from him, he has managed to find happiness in the smaller things.

Andrew steps out of the bathroom, beelining for his desk, right in front of the window, cramped between his aloe veras and the ferns of differing sizes, their spiky leaves comfortingly scratching his skin as he settles down into his old gaming chair. His trusty computer waits for him, ready to be booted up and help him start his work day. He checks the clock reading 8:27 on the wall, just a few minutes behind the one on the computer, which reads 8:24, but he can't be bothered to fix it because it won't cause him any trouble anytime soon.

His password unlocks the screen once typed in, letting the user swiftly get to work. He checks his emails, looks through the list of tasks he compiled and starts typing away. He's working on another project, the first one after he published about Ivan and came to peace with it. It surprised him how the absence of the man was enough to improve his life so drastically. But right now Andrew focused on the current center of his attention, scripting his newest game idea. For what felt like hours he sat at his desk, typing commands and values, occasionally consulting the ai generator tab he had open in case he got stuck on a part. Some might call it unethical, sue him if you'd like, but it helped nonetheless. ->!to be modified + fixed + longer!

After a few hours of being locked into his work with unrelenting focus, he snaps out of it, leaning back in his chair, allowing a few soft squeaks to disturb the quietness of the apartment. He straightens up yet again, correcting his shrimped up posture the second time today, his spine cracking in satisfaction. He lets out a groan, moving to the kitchen, right next to his bathroom, to cook up some food. He forgot to cook breakfast, but he learned to set reminders for lunch and dinner at least. He heats up a pan, heating up yesterdays stir fried vegetables with lazy movements. He can't afford a microwave, but life is all about sacrifices right? He can always just use the oven or stove.

Andrew picks out a clean plate and silverware and a fork, the cupboard doors creaking as they open and close, telling of their age and how worn out they've become. His fingers grasp and turn down the dial of the heat when he sees the food cooked well enough, distributing it on the chosen platter evenly. He slowly chews it, eating with vigor. The meal doesn't taste just as fresh, but the spices and general taste still linger, the umami washing over his tastebuds. His fingers lazily scroll on social media as he pushes a lone piece of carrot around, not particularly his favorite. He learned to avoid most of the posts talking about the game he's working on. He finds that the more people want the game to release, the more the pressure builds up and makes him unmotivated. Better to just ignore what he can and carry on at his own pace.

Soon, he begrudgingly eats the carrot, finishing his lunch. As if on que, his alarm goes off, buzzing and vibrating as the phone lights up. The letters pop up, reading "Meet with therapist at office in 30 min", a little reminder in case he forgot, not that he ever would anytime soon.

Andrew washes the dishes fairly quickly and leaves them to dry on a rack next to the sink, too lazy to just dry them with towels now. He throws on his jacket and zips it up, protecting himself from the harsh cold outside. Despite it being March, the snow still seemed to be a constant presence even if more sparingly so now. Andrew makes sure to lock the front door after he steps out, not wanting to take any chances. The crime rate in this part of the city was very low, but you can never be too sure.

Despite still technically being inside the building, the hall was as chill as the outside, letting a deep frozen chill settle into his bones, as if something isn't right despite there being nothing wrong. The leather boots Andrew put on echo as he climbs down the stairs, hands into his pockets since the rail was almost like ice to the touch, cold enough to make Andrew not want to hold on to it despite the steps being slippery. He nearly tumbles down but quickly catches himself, sighing in relief that there was no one else in the hall with him to see his clumsy struggle.

The snow crunches satisfyingly under his feet, a thin layer that isn't enough of a hassle for anyone to want to shovel it away. Still, the snowflakes keep falling, they have been for the past 20 minutes, and there seems no sign of them stopping anytime soon. A few of them fall on Andrews eyelashes and cheeks, the latter melting on impact but sill sending small touches of coolness that are enough to make his blood rush to his cheeks, making them a rosy red.

A loud groan sounds out in the air as Andrew pulls unlocks his car, pulling the door open and climbing into the drivers seat. He winces, the seat cold enough to feel it through his pants right on his ass. His body wiggles to warm up, twisting the key in it's place and starting the engine. His beloved old green truck, the one he had for at least a good 5 years was slowly but surely getting older, but Andrew knew he could still keep it going for more. He didn't have the money for another one, repairs cost too much to consider it at the moment and the thought of public transport sent a chill down his spine, either from the cold or the thought of the dreadful cramped spaces.

His fingers grown numb on the steering wheel as he drives out of the parking lot, weaving through the cars. It was noon, but it wasn't very busy, something Andrew was grateful for since he didn't have much patience for trafic.

He arrives almost on the dot, maybe 2 minutes earlier. The building renovated a few days ago so he was still getting used to the new look. The walls outside were painted a new coat of white, a little intimidating to look at because of the sterile look, but Andrew had been here enough times to not feel pressured in any way. He was here to improve, to heal. Paint can't make him change his mind.

Inside, it's considerably warmer, and he sits down on one of the armchairs close to the heater, grateful for a break from the winter wonderland in the making outside. He unzips his jacket, waiting patiently to be called by his therapist. There aren't any bad thoughts in his hear right now, but he still convinces himself that it's important, for the sake of making sure he prevents ending up in the same place as before.

The door on the far end of the room opens, and a pleasant voice ring out from inside, inviting him.

"Please come in, I'm ready to start our appointment!"

Andrew gets up and follows the source of the warm and comforting voice, grabbing the handle and pushing the door a little wider to enter. It smelled like tea and cake here, a fragrant scent that eased his mind as soon as he entered. He quickly saw the hot cup on the small table to the right side as the culprit, accompanied by a half filled cute teapot with a cat. The woman sat on a plush chair in front of him was his respective therapist, Miss Anabella, but he started calling her Anna out of habit a few weeks into his regular sessions. She motions for him to sit on a sofa n front of her, her smile small and sweet.

"How have you been doing Andrew?" She starts off, her go-to starter for their conversations.

"Pretty good I think, I'm not having any negative thoughts at the moment." Andrew replies, a little bit at a loss at what to say since for once, his life seemed to be going pretty well.

"That's very good. You've told me a few weeks ago you're working on another game. Are you still doing that or have you moved on from it?" her face is unchanging, a composed figure that's there to monitor and help self-reflection. Anna wasn't there to fix him, she was there to help Andrew fix himself.

"Yeah uh- no, I'm still on that idea. I'm working at least 2 hours a day if not more on it. I want to publish it soon." The man explains, feeling a chilling sense of deja vu. "I feel like something is wrong today." The words tumble right out of his mouth as soon as he thinks them, something that hasn't occurred very often lately.

"How so?" Annas eyebrows lift only a fraction, her head tilting slightly in curiosity.

"I don't know how to explain it, it's like some of the usual small things I do remind me of..." He pauses and thinks on his thought. He didn't really want to vocalize it, but he already got over it a while ago- or so he thinks.

"...Of?"

"Of when I was still friends with Ivan." He pushes the words out with difficulty, the name being like a bush of dry grass and prickly thorns stuck in his neck. It didn't hurt as much as it used to, not now that the scars were old and the area was numb from old pain. It still gave him a sense of inexplicable dread however.

"Do you think those little actions could cause you to revert back to that time?" With these words, Andrew can't help but resent her a very small bit, how quickly and accurately she can read people.

"Maybe... I don't know. He's gone and yet he still somehow comes up in conversations completely uninvited all because of me. He's like a parasite I can't get rid of. I can try to shake him off or heal myself from his disease, but he never really leaves. He's haunting me Ann." The confession is said like defeated speech. How badly Andrew wished to haunt Ivans own memories. Even now he thinks of him. Does Ivan hate him? Does he loath Andrew as much as Andrew loathes Ivan? Does he haunt the latter's thoughts even late at night? Andrew felt consumed by these thoughts, and the more he spilled out to Ann it felt like a burden was lowered, but it felt like giving up to just accept that he would never know if he affected Ivan in the same way.

And despite the session going and going in the background, buzzing as it was slowly being tuned out, Ivan was still there, sucking his life out slowly, like a tumor attached too deeply he couldn't cut off. Maybe one day he will, but until then he just had to live with it.

Chapter Text

Snow. It keeps snowing outside, as if mocking his current mood. The snowflakes are pretty big and round, some landing on the hospital window and some drifting away out sight, annoying Ivan to no end. He couldn't keep track of every snowflake, that much was obvious, but it felt good to be able to keep tabs on most of them. A shame only about a dozen landed somewhere he could reach with his gaze while the hundred others vanished.

"Ivan?"

That voice seemed to snap him out of it- at least partially. Ivan clutched the blanket covering his lower half, wrinkled and slept in. The nurses would change the covers the next day anyway he heard. His head slowly turns towards the source of the noise, not giving much of a reaction aside from a pair of slightly parted lips. Pain medication does that to you, numbs down your feeling until you can't feel much aside from a dizzying sense of nausea. Side effects he supposes.

The woman stands in the doorframe of his room, clutching a jacket in her hands, probably one she wore earlier. Red bacon hair, greyed by time, fell in curls and framed her sharp face, chin pointy and visible. If the grey hair wasn't enough of an indicator to her old age, her slight wrinkles under her eyes and on her forehead and the hollowed out cheeks sure were one. Her skin was grey, bordering on white, and her eyes like two black marbles in contrast. Ivan recognized her without much struggle. After all she was always there, in his nightmares, making sure to let her disappointment be felt.

"What are you doing here mom?" Ivan asks slowly, finding the willpower to question this sudden visit despite the hazy and cloudy mind he had.

"We told you yesterday that we would try to get in touch with your emergency contacts. Mrs. Grey was the only one who we could get in touch with." The nurse behind responded the redhead, his mom, responded, eyes skittish and darting across the floor. "I'm sorry, you gave your consent yesterday so I thought..."

Did he? Ivan couldn't remember much. Anesthesia, pain killers, melatonin... At one point it all blends into a big concoction that makes amnesia look like a joke, a lucid state, where you can talk, do things and give consent, only to forget it in 5 minutes at best. He couldn't argue against that, so he just nods his head, making the now relieved nurse excuse herself to offer the two of them privacy.

Ivans mom, Mrs. Grey sists on the available chair, letting the jacket hang on the armrest. Her eyes seem riddled with genuine concern, for once, Ivan thinks.

"Ivan." She begins, her lips pressing into that thin annoying line she always makes when shes upset. Despite the meds however, he can see the way this gesture is meant to hide the subtle tremor of her lips, that shake as she speaks. "They didn't tell me what happened. Do you think... do you think you can tell me?" The worry is her voice is not concealed at all, her black void eyes narrowing with worry, but not moving any closer than necessary. "All these broken bones, your developing insomnia... Please just tell me what's going on, honey..!"

Her eyes tear up slightly before pressing a handkerchief and patting her undereye lightly. Ivan startles at the sight for a moment. Was his mom always this concerned for him? Usually she just scolded his efforts, treated him like junk that was never going to make it in the real world. Or so that's how he remembers it at least.

"I don't know if I can tell you." Ivans voice was quiet by nature, something she never grew used to since both his father and her were pretty loud people. So she had to strain her ears to hear the words, almost as if whispered from afar. This seemed to agitate her further however so he decided to add on the second part to make it sound less bad than it was. "I've had a pretty nasty fall from a flight of stairs."

Ivans mom seemed somewhat pleased, still wincing as she heard the half truth half lie. It was true, metaphorically. After all, life's a big flight of stairs right?

Except this time the fall was supposed to end his struggle, not make it even more difficult.

"Are you feeling better now? I imagine the doctors and nurses are giving you pills to make it hurt less..."

"Yeah, they are." Ivan replies a bit sluggishly, as if half asleep.

"I'm glad. I know we haven't talked much ever since... You know, your dad passing. But I'm glad we can now." She smiled, placing her wrinkled hand on top of Ivans.

Ivan snaps out his daze for a moment, jolting in surprise at her words. Looking up, he briefly searches her face for honesty but gives up after finding his vision blurring.

"...Yeah. I guess."

To be honest, Ivan didn't plan for this conversation to go further. His mother was just a reminder of something he didn't want to talk about. Even thinking about it made his stomach contract, threatening to puke. So he pushed the thoughts back into a box, at the back of his mind as he always had.

The window. He was watching the window before. The snowflakes were still falling and you could follow them with your eyes until they vanished from your gaze.

"Have you told anyone else about this?"

Ivans moms voice makes him lose his train of thought yet again. He didn't think about that. Ivan wasn't sure if he had anyone to even contact. The only number in his phone was Andrews and some other people he worked for to make money for the flat. Thinking about it, he never bothered to make friends. All he had was Andrew, and that was all that mattered. Him, his best friend, and the games, which never really were his.

It felt like a wave of clarity hit him, suddenly self aware about the whole situation. It felt pathetic to him now, how desperately he clung to one person hoping they could fix him when it was never truly their job to do so. Guilt washed over his mouth, making the words get stuck in it like tar, trying to get out but ending up ultimately stuck in his throat and being swallowed down back into their place.

All his thoughts circled back to Andrew.

Hearing the tense silence, Ivans mom sighed, letting her shoulders slump, forcing a weak smile.

"I'm glad you told me at least. You don't have to speak right now. You must still be pretty shaken up by the... fall." Ivan could read on her face the uncomfortableness, how she itched to get out of the conversation for fear of making him either lash out or isolate himself even more. She felt distant, like she didn't connect with him when she should've and now the cracks were showing despite the mutual effort of trying to patch them up.

"I'll visit tomorrow as well."

Ivan only nodded as she left, feeling a bit less hollow, but still empty.

---------

The crutches were a new and possible permanent addition to his life now. The doctors said they weren't sure if his legs would heal properly so they said to get sed to them. Ivan shuddered at the thought, feeling an involuntary twitch from his shattered leg. He hoped it would heal fast enough that he wouldn't have to think about it anytime soon.

His hands caught the railing on the roof of the hospital, clutching it white knuckled for stability, face visibly pale from nausea. It was more secure around here, with nets and fences lining up the perimeter f the roof in order to prevent accidents. He wasn't really supposed to be here, it was fairly late and the nurses soon gonna check his bed and find his missing body, searching the whole area for him. The walk back would be just as tedious as the one he made up here, huffing and heaving as he climbed the stairs with difficulty. His stamina had deteriorated to something laughable.

Ivans hand moved to the pocket in his hospital gown. It had been changed from a long gown to something resembling pajamas, something Ivan was grateful for since he didn't feel cold all the time since then. He reached his hand inside the sewn in compartment, plucking out the only thing he could possibly carry- his phone. He knew he didn't have much time, he needed to be quick, before the nurses came and sent him to sleep.

Only one number stared him in the face as he unlocked the screen, the profile picture making his heart clench in pain. He knew he shouldn't do this. He knew he didn't have any right, not after what he did. Ivan bit his lip in restlessness, finger hovering over the button which could soothe the ache for now but leave even deeper scars after.

He just needed to hear his voice. Just once.

For a brief moment doubt clouded his mind. What if he changed his number? What if he blocked him? What if he didn't remember him? The lst question terrified him the most. Without thinking, he presses the call button, silencing the thoughts before they can cut any deeper.

The familiar ring beeps out against his ear, filling the air with tension, like a whip about to snap at any moment. Ivan felt the need to pace, but his leg hurt too much for that. His head hands forward slumping. Five rings without answer. Maybe it's too late at night. Maybe it was useless to even try.

The line snaps faintly, and a familiar voice echoes on the other side.

"...Hello?" The other mans voice is confused but inviting. Ivans sighs in relief. He struggles to find the words to reply, disbelief washing over him. He didn't think luck would favor him. He wasn't deserving of it.

"Andrew?" His voice comes out shakier than intended, quieter than he wanted it to come across. He realized he probably sounded really muted on the other side of the call, and for a moment he wondered if Andrew recognized him because of it. "I..." he wants to begin, words drying up on his tongue. Why was it so hard to just talk with the people he cared about? Another lump in his throat forms, asphyxiating him from the inside out. He manages to speak up, like a whisper "I-I miss you." He feels the lump growing bigger, leaving him even paler. He moves his other hand fly up to his mouth to cover it, muting the sounds of his labored breathing.

Small droplets of salty water hit the railing, rolling along the curves and falling further. Ivans cheeks tear stained and drained of color draw upwards in a smile, more for himself rather than anyone. Andrew didn't want to speak at all. The other line was dead silent, and he checked twice to make sure he didn't hang up. The smile was sour and bitter, leaving a certain taste of vomit and bile on his tongue. He felt choked up by his own need to speak, silently sobbing on the line. He didn't want Andrew to hear that. He didn't want pity from him. Ivans heart clenched painfully in his chest, a sharp pang, akin to a stab, making his chest ache. It hurt, the words inside were too big to admit or say, and each time he tried to get them out, they got stuck in one place and refused to come out, tangling in a big messy clump he buried deep inside the darkest parts of his soul in an attempt to make the pain go away.

This time it didn't go away. And before he could do anything about it, he vomited them out, letting them pour over the phone, with raw honesty which scratched the walls of his mouth and made it itchy.

"I-I... I love you." it felt too real to take back or regret, spoken louder than the rest, and Ivan was left staring ahead in slight horror and relief, a strange combination, fearing the silence that was about to come. But instead of static, as quickly as the words came out of his mouth, the reply from Andrew cut him off as soon as the last vowel was even uttered.

"You've got the wrong fucking number." The voice came out short and unstable, as if on the verge of something unnamed. Ivan couldn't read it. "Don't call here again."

The call cuts off, screen fading to black while the only thing left to hear were the few cars that were still driving at this late hour. Ivan just blankly stared ahead, watching the moon bathe everything in it's light. He felt bad, not because of the words he said, but because of their dismissal. Ivan had never said 'I love you' to anyone ever in his life except maybe his dad. This was the first time in 10 years he did so. And Andrew just... hung up. His head hanged low, eyes unfocused, zoning out. It felt like with every door he opened, another one closed. It was a hopeless loop.

It wasn't long before the nurses took him back to his room after that. They asked Ivan why he cried and he replied that he thought of a good memory. They put him to bed, and he almost wished it was the truth, to replace the empty and confusing reality of it all.