today, i want live.
word count: 2.8k
pairing: gen
genre: hurt/comfort
summary: ivan wore loose clothings; each hero have their own vague understanding as to why, but none feel like it’s their place to pry. they won’t force him to tell them anything he doesn’t want to share. they’ll just let him know that they were there for him.
> this was inspired by a prompt i saw while browsing thru the t&b kink meme. i deviated quite heavily from the original prompt but felt like i needed to give it credit, so here's the original request: > “Ivan wears somewhat baggy clothes. I mean, you can barely see his body. The pants are very big and the jacket is really puffy. Someone gets curious by the way Ivan dresses... is he hiding something? It's up to you if he is indeed hiding something or if he is just really shy to show his body. Bonus points if the one that gets puzzled is either Keith, Bunny or Tiger.”
a/n: t&b kink meme got me thunking (am i projecting on ivan again? yea)
on a serious note, wishing you were never born, wanting to physically harm or kill yourself and wishing you didn’t exist are all signs of suicidal ideation. please seek professional help or call a hotline if you’re especially bad at this moment.
if there was a reason why ivan wore baggy clothings, the heroes never pried.
if there was a reason why he hid his neck under that thick scarf, they never pried.
if there was something under the long sleeves he kept tugging, pulling, over his hands, no one ever pried.
they were unsure whether they should show him that they were there for him or if they should mind their own business. somehow it feels as if it wasn’t their place to intervene, that it wasn’t what ivan would’ve wanted. so instead, they kept their distance and remained aloof.
day in, day out, even if it was sweltering hot outside, he’d clutch his jacket tightly and refused to be rid of it.
sometimes, he’d shiver like a leaf, twitching and flinching at every sound or movement. he’d fidget, tap his nails on whatever surface they could reach, compulsively move his legs, unable to stay still. other times he’d stay still. uncomfortably still. for long periods of time. the barest rise and fall of his chest hinting that he’s a living being and not a statue.
ivan wore loose clothings; each hero had their own vague understanding as to why, but none felt like it was their place to pry.
the blond was thankful.
ivan almost never took his jacket off: the first to notice was nathan. they just had an eye for that kind of thing. the blond was reasonably good-looking, they had noted during the blond’s debut. he most likely had a good figure. it was a shame that it would be hidden under all those layers of heavy clothing. not to mention the… interesting choice of apparel and atrocious colour combination.
they had entertained the thought of approaching the young man about it, of offering to help him find new attires that suited him more or was more aesthetically pleasing. accompany him to the few upscale boutiques they had in mind. teasing the blond would have also been amusing—nothing more exciting than new blood after all.
maybe it was the way ivan would wrap his hand around his wrists when he was overwhelmed or when there were many people nearby. how he would run his hand along his forearm when he was nervous.
maybe it was the way ivan was either taking too long to respond or was too fast at reacting, hyperaware of every little thing going on around him.
but nathan never did end up approaching him about his fashion choices. in the end, the two never interacted much following the younger hero’s debut.
the only time they conversed with him, their gaze away from the blond’s alarmingly bony limbs (if they saw anything during the very few instances ivan took his jacket off, they never commented), was to inform the young man that he had the wrong concealer colour on. they had offered to help him find the right shade, promising that they won’t pry, ask for more than he was willing to share.
ivan’s hands were always raw and bruised, almost to a concerning degree: karina had pointed out. reflexively, the blond shoved his hands in his pockets and hid them there for the rest of the day.
it’s not that she was wrong.
ivan was nothing if not a hardworker, a hardworker prone to pushing himself and disregarding his own limits. prone to train, recklessly, unhealthily, carelessly. it left him sore and bruised, rips and tears decorating his hand. he’d sprain joints and strain his muscles, and still force himself to keep going. until his mind spins and his vision blurs, until he catches himself stumbling, struggling to remain upright. until he collapses.
because it doesn’t matter if he gets hurt.
because it’s his fault if he’s not strong enough.
because it would be his own fault for being too weak and useless if he died on duty.
it would be what he deserved.
ivan doesn’t let his injuries heal. he picks at the scabs and opens old wounds. he’d watch as the blood would trickle before moving on to the next one.
ivan bites his nails. picks at it. sometimes, he pulls enough to draw blood. catharsis. release. he needs it. he picks, scratches, claws at his skin and bites on his fingers. he doesn’t care if it’ll damage his hands, doesn’t care that he should probably stop. he digs his own fingers under his nails, until it starts to hurt.
for the days, weeks, months, following that, ivan took extra care and precaution to make sure his hands were hidden—usually wrapped in bandages or buried somewhere in his pockets. it’s his ugly, nasty, disgusting, little secret that no one else should have to see anyway.
karina felt bad, but she wasn’t sure what to say. she wasn’t sure if she should apologise or give him an advice or show her support another way. she wasn’t sure what to do. so she just decided to leave him be, hoping that giving him space was enough, was what he needed.
ivan, especially during his earlier days, often went missing: and it filled antonio with a certain kind of dread. similar to the one that he felt when his best friend would disappear for days at a time following his wife’s passing.
he could sense it when the blond would go missing. missing for days, for weeks. before he went missing he’d be listless, apathetic. silent. unresponsive. he would give people the barest response, never quite meeting their eyes. it was as if he wasn’t there.
ivan had a way to make himself disappear, make himself small and unnoticeable. not all that different from the shadows that cling to particularly dark corners, or the spirit that hides just outside your view.
as the days went by, antonio’s worries would grow. and he worried. worried himself sick. but he resigned himself to waiting it out—he couldn’t find his best friend when he went away, there wasn’t a chance he could find the young hero, who could hide in plain sight.
the veteran hero would always walk back to his flat—amazing what wonders a late evening stroll does to you. the frequency and length of these walks would rise whenever ivan went away. sometimes, he would pass by tall buildings or large bridges. he'd end up staring at them for a long time. he didn’t like staying near them for too long, didn’t like where his thoughts led him, and he would quicken his pace.
he never told it to ivan’s face, never expressed it directly… but whenever the blond reappeared, a monumental weight would be lifted from the veteran hero’s shoulders. he knew he couldn’t control whether ivan went away or not, but he hoped that whenever he did, he would always come back.
it wasn’t the thrill. it couldn’t be qualified as that.
some days, ivan simply had no energy. he’d hide in his futon and pass out. he’d lay there, motionless, alternating between staring emptily at the ceiling and sleeping for days.
those were the bad days.
he didn’t show up to work, didn’t respond to calls, didn’t listen to his communicator’s incessant ringing. not because he didn’t want to. because he didn’t know how to.
he forgot.
he forgets a lot. forgets what people say to him in conversations, forgets mission information, forgets how to be.
his mind was a mess of grey scribbles and static noise, deafening rain on a leaking roof, flickering lights, and creaking floorboards.
his life was a criminal sentence the judge placed on him. sins penitents needed to confess. a litany of regrets he wished he could erase. a string of bad decisions after bad decisions he wished to undo.
whenever he was lucid enough, he couldn’t bring himself to show back up at work, ashamed at his inaction.
another side of him liked dicing with death.
he hated this selfish and egocentric part of himself: each time he disappeared, he hoped that it would be the straw that broke the camel’s back, it would be the reason he was sacked and would be allowed to leave.
he doesn’t want to be tied to his life by moral responsibility and obligations—if he quit he wouldn’t be forced to stay for any longer—but quitting wouldn’t be right. he couldn’t desecrate edward’s wish like that. his friend. former friend?
his only friend who’s life he ruined.
honouring his wish was the only thing he could do. and he can’t even do that right. bound to fuck everything up.
quitting being a hero would be another reason for his former friend to hate him.
he deserves that hate. he wants to be hated, because that’s all he deserves.
maybe if he were never born, edward would’ve never gone to prison. maybe if he never existed, edward could’ve been the incredible hero he was fated to be.
the world would be better off without him, a waste of space, garbage who doesn’t contribute to anything.
an ivan-less world sounded appealing.
he can’t deny how easy it would be for him if he was never born. the world would be better off without him, and he would also be better off without having to deal with himself. what a narcissistic way to think about it.
another reason why an ivan-less world sounded appealing.
each time, he would stare blankly at his phone, glassy eyes watching as the minutes on his digital clock turned into hours. he’d consider the prospect of dying.
and each time, despite the temptation, some force compels him to go back to the other heroes.
the heroes were unsure on whether they should show him that they were there for him or if they should mind their own business. somehow it feels as if it’s not their place to intervene. but they know that staying aloof was not the way to show that they cared, was not the right way to help him.
ivan wore loose clothings; each hero have their own vague understanding as to why, but none feel like it’s their place to pry. they won’t force him to tell them anything he doesn’t want to share. it’s his choice whether he opens up or not, his decision to make. they won’t pressure him. they’ll just let him know that they were there for him, and would support him no matter what. come what may, they’ll always have his back.
ivan’s house rarely ever had food, the pantry horribly bare: this was quite the rude awakening for kotetsu. ivan doesn’t understand why the older man makes such a big fuss over whether or not there was food in his house. he doesn’t even remember to eat, what’s the point of buying food that’ll spoil?
that only further alarmed the older man, who pulled the blond along with him to go grocery shopping.
see kotetsu understands, knows what it’s like.
knows how it feels like to forget how to take care of himself. how it’s like to be numb. how it feels to lose days without realising it.
so he pulls ivan along and brings him grocery shopping. eggs, rice, bread, staples. he brings ivan grocery shopping and buys enough to last him a month. wrangles other customers for discounted items during closing time sales. helps him carry the groceries back to his flat. the older man taught him how to cook, set notes reminding him to take care of himself, and messages him asking if he ate yet. come the next month, the veteran hero would be back to pull him along for another trip at the food shops.
slowly, food shopping became easier. it wasn’t as hard as it used to be.
it’s been a long time now. monthly grocery shopping is still a chore. but ivan no longer needs to be accompanied by kotetsu to do it. ivan remembers to go grocery shopping. he takes the quickest route there. remembers to buy enough to last him the rest of the month. picks out the green tea brand that he likes. swipes a discounted packet of bean sprouts. and walked home.
and as he makes himself dinner, he noted that that day was a good day.
the heroes are proud of him.
ivan’s training method was often unsafe: so pao-lin took it upon themselves to spar with him. whenever the blond would begin his training, the younger hero would offer to be his sparring partner.
it would be good to get 1-on-1 fighting practice. they can assess each other’s progress. they’ll keep an eye out in case ivan starts over exerting himself. sometimes, they’d enthusiastically ask if he wanted to compete. who could run the most distance, do the most push-ups, who could win the most rounds out of five.
ivan didn’t know what to make of it, but accepted, not wanting to be rude. they both shared a similar affinity for martial arts. used medium-ranged weapons. what would be the harm in it? it’s better than letting his katana collect dust.
after a while, it started being odd to not practice with pao-lin. felt bizarre not having them buzz around energetically. creature of habit, force of routine. he starts seeking them out during training. manages to push away the thoughts that tell him that the other hero wants nothing to do with him. that they were tolerating him out of pity. manages to fight the reflex to isolate himself. and when he does ask, pao-lin was more than happy to oblige.
they tended to be a chatterbox, so it was no surprise that breaks would oftentimes be filled with their rambling. sometimes, the blond would interject. but most of the time, it was his junior who carried the conversation. but he didn’t mind. it was nice. he’s surprised that they were also interested in anime. it’s nice. it’s nice being with someone he shares an interest with. he manages to open up. starts talking more about what he’s passionate about. stops believing that the other heroes hate him.
and his friends are proud.
picking up his training katanas, he suggested going back to practice, which pao-lin agreed to with gusto.
they wondered aloud what made him so happy that day. ivan blinked. thought about it for a second. as he shook his head, he told them that it was nothing. it’s just been a good day.
ivan has a tendency to lock himself away in his bedroom: that was why keith would always ask if ivan wanted to come run with him (and john)—it didn’t actually matter what his answer was, keith was set on making him tag along.
keith brings him out jogging, or walking if he doesn’t feel like running. even if he doesn’t feel like going out, ivan would follow the blond wordlessly. keith takes him outside to help clear his mind. breathe in fresh air. to remind him the world isn’t confined to his dark and stuffy bedroom. that the world is so much more than the empty and suffocating room.
soon enough, walking around became a comforting routine. an alternative. a safe escape. he remembers to go outside once in a while. he takes the usual path keith would lead him through. he’d see the sun at its zenith. he’d watch as the sun rose or dipped below the horizon. sights he probably wouldn’t have bothered to notice.
usually, these walks were uneventful. it didn’t matter if they were or not. it helped rid his mind of harmful thoughts, if only for a moment. a welcome distraction. sometimes he’d cross paths with keith. sometimes he’d greet him. sometimes he’ll just acknowledge his presence.
keith was fine with this peaceful coexistence. they didn’t have to talk if ivan didn’t want to. it was enough to see him get out and about. see him basking in the sun. enjoy the present.
john would wag happily, excitedly meeting ivan’s hand (he hasn’t felt like he needed to conceal his hands in a long time now). and as ivan gently petted the dog’s head he noted that it had been a good day.
it’s been a long time since he felt as though he had to wear a scarf everywhere he went. the patch where he would pull his hair has healed. he no longer fights the urge to bash his head against the drywall or give in to his impulses. he still wears his jacket everywhere, his second skin, but the other heroes understand. they’re still proud of him.
he’s getting better. not every day is a good day. but whenever the heroes remembered how he used to be, how bad the bad days used to be, they’re proud. it’s easier to remain the same. but he chose to start getting better. they’re proud of him. he’s getting better. his life was no longer something he regretted. he turned it into something he wanted to cherish. there were more good days than bad days.
today he: had a good night's sleep. flossed before going to work. made his bed. remembered to feed himself. polished his shuriken. scored some points on herotv. made a post on his blog.
today is a good day.
today he wants to live.
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