everything's been fitful. sleep, waking, turning onto his side, wanting so badly to hold a pen but not being able to find his fingers through the haze of his body. there have been lights, a warm but industrial yellow, a low buzzing sound along with them. till hates the noise until he realises its presence alone is enough proof that somebody took out his in-ears. he slips back under often, but it's always that he waits for when life shakes his shoulder again. voices, occasionally, too, but they're far less reliable and strange to him. everything but the talking makes some kind of sense; the slow plod of his heartbeat on the monitor, the wires and tubes laced through his arms and neck like ribbons, the scratchy half-plastic of medical gowns and sheets.
he's been out long enough that dreams blend seamlessly into his memory. till's always at least a little hurt, knuckles and noses and elbows, always at least a little bloody, and even when he isn't they're sticking things in him and telling him to listen well. he'd always hated that, like he could listen any better just because they'd told him to, like he could put any effort into something his body did for him. chances are he'd gotten himself here again, bit the hand that pressed him down and got a smack to the head for his trouble. till's been knocked stupid more times than he can count, been strapped down and poked at even more to see if they can find the organ that makes him mean and take it out.
ivan isn't supposed to be here. till can't quite remember why, but he knows hearing ivan speak is such a shock to him that his eyes fly open despite the weight. they'd stopped sharing a room years ago, though the sleepovers had continued far beyond that. it can't just be that it's early. till's been waking up to ivan almost his whole life. he struggles up, through the blankets and ties and dusty old equipment, gets his hand caught on one of the things jabbed in his arm and tries to curse. all that comes out is a half-wheeze, some awful death rattle of a sound. till reaches up for the ventilator he's breathing through and finds he isn't wearing one.
sweat sticks his shirt to his chest. he looks down and finds himself slathered in flakes of ugly brown, smelling like copper, stitched like a dress. the movement jars him, pulls so hard at his neck that he yelps (another broken noise, like broken glass under a rubber boot), fingers scrabbling against wire and knots. his eyes blow wide when he looks to ivan, angry and terrified all at once, like it might be his fault till doesn't understand. like if he just comes closer, he can take it all away.
