[ His hand makes contact, then his fingers dig into white fabric, trying to get a grip and steady himself. All effort is unnecessary as strong arms lift him, and his immediate reaction is to attempt to make distance. The hand that sought to securely hold on to the stable form is now trying to push away from it, with Till forgetting why he reached out in the first place. There is a danger that he may be dropped, but that's not up for consideration when sudden closeness only instills instant discomfort.
He does not stop.
Until words are spoken in a familiar voice.
That's when Till stills, frozen in rising panic. He knows that voice. He knows it well. He has heard it countless times. He has heard it in song. He has heard it during his last performance. He heard it. He didn't listen to a plea. And he still hears it now. Often, when sleep eludes him, auditory hallucinations accompany him. There are familiar voices, mixed with unknown ones, but one person's voice is as constant as the images that flood his mind when he closes his eyes. That vivid red, bright enough to light a night sky ablaze. A red pool of blood at his feet.
He does not dare lift his gaze.
This cannot be real. This place has made him see things before. It has also created illusions so lifelike that he sometimes had to doubt his senses. Then why should this be any different? Someone who incurred a loss cannot return. The dead stay dead. Yet he cannot help but recall that meow meow mage speaking of medical treatment for the dead. It seemed silly then, ridiculous, and he even questioned her about it. Rather than receive a clear answer, he was told to find out for himself, and now he isn't sure if he wants to know. There is a horrible, nauseating feeling. It's guilt. Guilt for living, for being here. ]
You're fake... just disappear.
[ Yet this apparition is holding his weight. It's sturdy. Solid. His touch confirms that much. His hands press against the form he does not want to see. Until finally, he feels there is no other choice. Hesitantly, he lifts his gaze to look at him. Look at Ivan. ]
no subject
He does not stop.
Until words are spoken in a familiar voice.
That's when Till stills, frozen in rising panic. He knows that voice. He knows it well. He has heard it countless times. He has heard it in song. He has heard it during his last performance. He heard it. He didn't listen to a plea. And he still hears it now. Often, when sleep eludes him, auditory hallucinations accompany him. There are familiar voices, mixed with unknown ones, but one person's voice is as constant as the images that flood his mind when he closes his eyes. That vivid red, bright enough to light a night sky ablaze. A red pool of blood at his feet.
He does not dare lift his gaze.
This cannot be real. This place has made him see things before. It has also created illusions so lifelike that he sometimes had to doubt his senses. Then why should this be any different? Someone who incurred a loss cannot return. The dead stay dead. Yet he cannot help but recall that meow meow mage speaking of medical treatment for the dead. It seemed silly then, ridiculous, and he even questioned her about it. Rather than receive a clear answer, he was told to find out for himself, and now he isn't sure if he wants to know. There is a horrible, nauseating feeling. It's guilt. Guilt for living, for being here. ]
You're fake... just disappear.
[ Yet this apparition is holding his weight. It's sturdy. Solid. His touch confirms that much. His hands press against the form he does not want to see. Until finally, he feels there is no other choice. Hesitantly, he lifts his gaze to look at him. Look at Ivan. ]