“i’m moving out. goodbye, ivan.”

those words from andrew made ivan freeze. his body locked up as his brain attempted to decipher what andrew had just told him; apparently, andrew had been planning on moving out on christmas day as a sort of present to ivan, as andrew had been forced to live in ivan’s flat after losing all funding to keep paying for his rented house. admittedly, ivan hadn’t been housing andrew in the best conditions; despite the couch being free, ivan had forced andrew to sleep on the floor atop a crummy old sleeping-bag & an old pillow. ivan had been yelling at andrew nearly every day for this & that, menial things even he couldn’t remember right now. but ivan loved andrew, didn’t he? it was that dumb tumour’s fault that ivan was hurting andrew in the first place. he didn’t want andrew to leave him before seeing the truth for himself too; that ivan cared for andrew more than he could bare.

get the axe.

that was the tumour speaking to him, wasn’t it? that damn tumour. always telling him what to do. what to say. how to treat andrew. yet, ivan couldn’t seem to resist its commands, as always. as andrew began to pack his stuff up around the apartment, ivan silently got up from the couch where he’d previously been sat on & made a beeline for his own bedroom. there was an old axe, rusty & a bit dysfunctional, hung up on the wall that had previously belonged to his late father. ivan took it down from the plaque without a second thought, before turning right back round & heading out to the living room again. andrew was just approaching the main doorway, about to leave with his carrier bag. ivan stood in the doorway, preventing andrew’s exit out of there even if he wanted to leave that way, the handle of the old axe clutched tightly in his hands in a white-knuckled grip so hard it was a miracle it didn’t snap the handle right then & there.

“andrew.”