Archive of Our Own

The first afternoon he spends outside of isolation after their failed escape, Till sits under a tree and draws. It’s not like he’s expecting anything, or waiting for anyone! Last night’s events are the furthest thing from his mind. Why would he still be thinking about it?

But—it was pretty, Till admits, running his finger along the sky crudely shaded over his notebook. He tried his best, but it’s not even close to doing the real thing justice. His pencil can’t capture the gold of the gashes in the sky, the fade from blood red to something warmer, softer nearing the horizon. Till wishes he had something to color with, but all he has is his pencils.

It would be really embarrassing, but maybe he could ask Ivan if—oh. Right. Ivan.

Till’s eyes and nose sting, and he blinks furiously to clear the blur. He’d rather die than cry over something this stupid.

So what if Ivan doesn’t come? Till will be relieved, won’t he? He’ll finally be able to draw and write songs without the weirdo cramping his elbow room. 

…He probably won’t come. Before, Till couldn’t shake the stone-faced little leech off no matter how hard he tried—but he finally did it.

(He’s stomped all over the closest thing to friendship he’s ever had.)

He’s not going to cry. That would be really dumb. So he’s not going to cry.

Till turns to a new page and tries to sketch out the familiar softness of Mizi’s face. But his pencil drags to a stop at the round cheek, and he closes his eyes, drained of energy. It’s fine. He’s not really in the mood to draw, but he’ll finish it later.

(Till’s shoulder is cold. It’s almost time to go back inside. Where’s Ivan?)

The solid-color view from behind Till’s eyelids darkens, a shadow falling over him. Something in Till’s chest loosens, sinking comfortably down to land at the bottom of his stomach.

The shadow settles by his side and shuffles closer. His skin is cold where their cheeks touch, but his body as a whole is warm against Till’s side.

“Are you drawing Mizi?” Ivan asks, voice soft and pitchless as ever by his ear.

Till nods quickly, then swallows. “About…you know,” he squeezes out. Every bone in his body wants to leave it unsaid, but he has to say it. As annoying as he is, doesn’t Ivan deserve an apology? “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, I just—”

“Didn’t want to leave without Mizi,” Ivan finishes. “I know.”

The thing is, Till doesn’t even know if that was the reason. He was laughing and running behind Ivan but then something inside him pulled tight and painful, and he let his hand slip free. He doesn’t know why.

Till squeezes his pencil for strength. “Do…do you think your plan would work with four people? Maybe we could try again?”

Soft hair brushes past Till’s cheek as Ivan shakes his head. “No.” 

When Till glances to his side, big, dark eyes snap to meet him. Till’s heart stutters, but he holds eye contact.

“Why’d you come back?” he says before he can tell himself to shut up. “You could’ve been free.”

Ivan tilts his head like the thought never occurred to him. “Without you?” End of sentence.

“...What’s that supposed to mean?” Till huffs. “Obviously you could’ve been if you’d just kept running. You’re stupid smart, you’d figure out how to survive out there. It’s not like you needed me in the first place. I probably would’ve slowed you down.”

“That’s not true. You’re good at getting into trouble and attracting attention,” Ivan says. “I think that could be useful on the run.”

Sarcasm is new from Ivan—he usually just insults Till plain and honest. Still, it gets Till mad enough to sock him in the jaw. He doesn’t mean it to start a fight, really, but Ivan seems insistent on tussling with him in a mess of grass and fabric, the jab of his elbow sharp in Till’s gut. That, at least, is normal. All is where it should be.

Except—Till just doesn’t get it. At best he’s just some kid, at worst he’s a discount baby and the Garden’s resident troublemaker (which is still true even if he’s always right and the aliens are stupid). What does Ivan get out of following him around like a ghost, even when Till is running back to hell?

It’s easier to focus on this half-hearted fight than the guilt, so Till kicks a little harder, swings a little wilder. Ivan still wins, like always, right before the bell rings for the next class period.

—

Everything is slow and dark and crawling when a thin beam of light falls into the isolation room, then slides away into nothingness as the door closes. Till doesn’t think much of it, sleep tugging at his eyes and pulling him underwater. 

There’s a weird shuffling next to him, and he lolls his head half-heartedly towards the sound, squinting. All he can see of Ivan is the gleaming whites of his eyes, a dimmed smudge of pale skin, and two startled red pupils—the rest of him is as dark as the whole room. 

He looks like some sort of shadow creature blended into the night. But at the same time, he’s dark and whole and solid, even if Till can only see a few pieces of him and he looks a little monstrous. Something cool brushes Till’s throat, and he closes his eyes.

Distantly, Till thinks that next time, Ivan should try doing whatever this is when Till is awake—it’s not bad to have some company. For some reason, his tongue moves, thick and sluggish in his mouth, while he’s thinking it. The blurring red spots in the darkness blow wide. Till falls asleep.

—

The next time Ivan breaks into Till’s isolation room, Till is wide awake, back pressed against the wall, knees up to his chest, gasping for air. The crack of light from the door burns his eyes, and he makes a wounded noise. Ivan closes the door a little faster.

Till shrinks away from his fingers, heart pounding hard enough to make his stomach turn, but Ivan only clicks his collar open before returning his hands to his sides, plopping down next to him and looking at him intently.

His nose is stuffed up, so Till takes in deep mouthfuls of air, the wheezing sound drowning out Ivan’s soft, measured breathing. It’s a little easier to breathe with the collar off, but Till is still—in there, in that white little room with the bright light shining down into his eyes. There are hands and tentacles all over him, and no matter how much he screams and squirms, the leather belts push him back down onto the metal table. Every time he thinks it’s over, another needle jabs into his skin. He wants it to stop, make it stop, make it stop, I’m gonna kill you, get off me, get off me—

Something throbs under Till’s thumb. A beat passes. It does it again. Till looks down, confused, and realizes that his hand is gripping Ivan’s wrist, nails digging into the pale skin, his thumb jabbed right into the pulse point.

Ivan’s heart beats slowly. Ivan breathes slowly. Ivan blinks slowly, his giant eyes tilted up. When they make eye contact, Ivan’s pulse skips a beat. The only thought running through Till’s head is: huh?

“Hello,” Ivan says. “You went somewhere.”

“Uh,” Till manages. Ivan’s pulse thrums under his fingers. Why is it so soothing? Every beat of Ivan’s heart lifts a bit of the weight off Till’s chest. Is that normal?

Ivan tilts his head. The room is quiet. The air is cool. Till breathes, and keeps breathing.

—

Ivan comes so frequently that Till gets used to him just showing up whenever he’s in isolation—whether it’s after an experiment or just a typical punishment. Tonight, he’s curled up in the dark, sore and still a little furious, and wonders when he stopped daydreaming about Mizi to make the dark seem less scary, and when he started waiting for Ivan to come sit with him instead.

Of course, Ivan comes, so Till never looks stupid for waiting. He clicks Till’s collar open and settles next to him, dropping his head on Till’s shoulder.

He’s smiling. He’s been doing that a lot lately—Till doesn’t know why, but it makes his skin crawl a little. Well, he does know why, he just doesn’t like to think about it.

Ivan always smiles like he’s following a two-step instruction manual. One: twist the corners of the mouth up; two: curve your eyes like so. Till looks at his scripted smile and feels a little sick, even though it isn’t ugly or anything, because when they were running under a skyful of shooting stars, Ivan smiled so wide his eyes had to smile too, and laughed like his happiness was too big to keep inside his body.

Is it his fault Ivan smiles all weird now? He liked it better when he didn’t smile at all. He doesn’t want Ivan to pretend around him.

Maybe his thoughts show on his face, because Ivan quietly takes Till’s hand and presses his thumb to his pulse. Till’s cheeks warm, but he does feel a little better.

—

On a warm, sticky sort of afternoon, Ivan lies with his head in Till’s lap, long legs laid straight out in front of him. He holds Till’s gaze drowsily until one of his blinks decides to stick.

Ivan is so soft in his sleep. Lips parted, lashes still against pale cheeks, sharp features gentled by the shade of the tree above them. His breathing is so quiet a passerby might mistake him for a corpse.

The boy napping in Till’s lap is nothing like the smaller one who beamed like the sun while beating the shape of his fists into Till’s face. But he was pretty then, even though Till was too pissed at the time to care, and he’s pretty now, with Till hopelessly attached to him and almost ready to admit it.

At the few parties Urak drags Till to, he’s seen the aliens salivate over Ivan—straight-backed, mostly symmetrical, smile slicked with a polite confidence that never crosses the line. Till gets the appeal—puberty treated the guy unfairly well and Till has to deal with it, too—but they’re way too— clinical about it. Leave it to the aliens to sap the life out of everything. 

They can call Ivan pleasing to the eye, but have they seen Ivan’s narrowed eyes gleaming in satisfaction, the butterfly-wing flutter of his eyelashes when he’s sleeping, the way the fake sun glints off his hair like it’s afraid to touch him? They can say he has the voice of a winner, but have they seen the way Ivan sings when Till is the only one asking him to? It always seems like he’s weaving the distant sea and the distant stars together into his cupped palms—just for Till’s curious ears to listen. But have they seen it?

A little embarrassed, Till cuts his thoughts off before they can get too crazy, and brushes his thumb over Ivan’s cheekbone. He doesn’t have to be too gentle; Ivan is naturally easy to wake, but when he knows Till’s nearby, he sleeps like the dead. If Till thinks about that for too long, something will happen.

Till thinks instead that of course the aliens haven’t seen any of Ivan, not like Till has. They can’t. They can look at him all they want, but Ivan is only Till’s to see.

…Till presses his free hand to his burning face. What the hell is he on about?

—

During a serene, relaxing trip to one of his favorite places, dreamland, a finger-shaped ice block presses itself into Till’s cheek and snaps him back to reality. It’s only because he knows Ivan so well that he doesn’t scream.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak into my dorm?” Till hisses. He sits up to give Ivan better access to his collar as he fiddles with it.

“At least a few more,” Ivan tells him, snapping the collar open. He sits cross-legged in front of Till, smiling at him like he thinks he deserves a prize. 

Till has the sudden urge to pinch his cheeks, so he does. Ivan smiles wider, with his teeth, and Till pulls hard enough that his gums show. Then he lets Ivan’s cheeks snap back into place, a little red where his fingers dug into them.

“Ow,” Ivan whines, rubbing at the red spots on his cheeks. “That hurt a lot, you know.”

“Oh no. How awful,” Till says dryly. He cups Ivan’s smiling face in his hands like an injured flower, snorting a little at the way his red pupils blow wide. “...Cheer up.”

Ivan’s eyes soften. Till slides his hands up his face and starts to play with his bangs, twisting and curling the thick black hair around his fingers. He’s not going to fall asleep any time soon—now that he’s awake, he’ll stay that way. That’s just the way his body works, even though it's—Till swivels to check—three in the morning. Maybe when Ivan leaves, he can work on a song or something.

Hmmm. Wait. Actually…

“Hey, Ivan,” Till says. “I’m gonna try something.” Ivan raises an eyebrow. Before he can open his mouth, Till tugs him down, shoving him back onto the bed. Then, ignoring the surge of embarrassment, he shuffles down, resting his head against Ivan’s chest.

Ivan’s heart beats against his ear, instantly making Till’s head go quiet. But it’s so loud, and so fast —Till can’t help but laugh, and then it picks up even more. What a loser.

“Good night,” Till says. Ivan’s fingers tentatively slide into his hair—less stroking it and more detangling it. But it feels nice, and Till falls asleep quickly.

—

“Stay still,” Till snaps, digging his pencil into his notebook. “I said stay still. Your hair keeps moving.”

“Go ask them to turn off the wind, then.”

“No. Stop moving your mouth.”

Ivan lets out a tortured sigh, but closes his mouth and reverts to the exact same smile from before. He must really want Till to draw him—he directly agreed when Till offered, and now he’s not even making it hard. Either that, or he really will do anything if Till actually asks.

Till’s drawn him before, of course, but not where Ivan can see. This one needs to be good, even though Ivan will like it no matter what. Till can call him what he wants, but at least in that way Ivan is pretty reliable.

Honestly, he doesn’t even need a reference to draw him at this point, but he studies Ivan anyway—the slight curve of his cheek, the way the tree above them thins the light and dims his face, the way his snaggletooth presses into his soft lower lip. He’s easy to draw—his features are so Ivan that it’s easy to make drawings look like him. Till wants to tell him that, but it’s kind of a weird compliment. He’d probably misunderstand.

Ivan doesn’t look like he’s getting antsy or anything, but Till tries to draw quickly anyway. He shoves the notebook with the finished product into Ivan’s chest. Ivan stares at it, the smile stilling on his face, his pupils dilating.

“Say something,” Till grumbles. “A thank you would be nice.”

“You’re welcome,” Ivan says. Till punches him in the shoulder and snatches the notebook back. “Did you like drawing me?”

“I like you,” Till says. For a peaceful moment, he is completely unaware of what he just said—but then the words come crashing down on him like a bucket of ice water. Maybe he could pass it off as nothing? But he already stiffened and his face is on fire. Ivan’s eyes are wide above his frozen smile.

He’s already planning to fake his death and live a secret life underground when Ivan says: “Haha.” Not even an actual laugh—just “haha.”

Till snaps out of his plotting. “What the hell are you laughing for?”

“Was that not a joke?”

“No?!” Till grits his teeth. He really wasn’t planning on confessing, but now that he has, he isn’t going to let Ivan think he was just joking. It’s not a joke. “I like you, you idiot. I know you like me too—” Till’s confidence wavers. “I think. So—be, like. Happy, or whatever. Stop looking at me like that.”

Ivan stares at him, the smile off his face. “You like me,” he says, flat.

“I said stop that,” Till says. Why the hell is he not happy? He deals with his frustration by reaching up and pulling Ivan’s cheeks half off his face. “I’ll help you. Repeat after me: ‘Okay, Till. I like you, too.’”

Ivan’s eyes lower.

“Don’t do that,” Till mutters. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Ivan exhales slowly. He does not tell Till what he’s thinking, but his expression melts into something dull and achingly sincere.

“Okay, Till,” he pushes out through his stretched mouth. “I like you, too.” 

The words make Till warm enough to ignore the lingering annoyance. He relaxes his grip on Ivan’s face, lightly pinching his cheeks instead. And that’s that.

—

“Can we try that thing? Kissing on the lips?” Ivan asks out of the blue one day, helpfully pushing a finger under his tongue to really sell it. Till promptly recoils like he’s been hit with acid, almost tumbling off the bench they’re sitting on.

“What the hell?” he hisses, confused more than anything. He’s not sure why his face is on fire. “ Why would we do that?”

“Everyone’s doing it these days,” Ivan says seriously. “Shouldn’t we do it, too?”

Till grimaces. “Who’s everyone?!”

“Everyone. Tiillll…I just want to try it.” 

Oh, so it’s just another weird thing Ivan wants to do for some made-up reason. Turning back around to continue working on his song, Till rolls his eyes. “Maybe on your birthday I’ll think about it.”

“You know I don’t have a birthday,” Ivan complains. “You’ll try it sometime, right?”

Till doesn’t reply, humming a half-baked melody as he waits impatiently for his cheeks to cool down. With a drawn-out sigh, Ivan tips his chin forward onto Till’s shoulder. When Till glances at him, Ivan frowns with shiny eyes. Crocodile tears, but Till’s heart sinks a little bit.

It’s not like he has genuine reasons not to—what, mash their faces together for some reason? But he’s very confused about how exactly the whole thing would even work. He’s also not sure why Ivan wants it so much. Knowing him, it might make him go mad with power. It’s best not to let him.

But they like each other or whatever, and people who like each other do stuff like this? Probably? He’s seen kids kiss each other’s cheeks as a sign of affection. Is that why Ivan thought of it?

Honestly…it wouldn’t hurt to try. Even if it ends up being weird and gross, Ivan has seen Till at his worst and only liked him more for it, for some reason. Logically, something like this shouldn’t be a big deal.

Till’s eyes dart down to Ivan’s lips. They look soft. He can’t tell if they’re more red or more pink. He’s pretty sure Ivan has an elaborate skin routine already—does he do something for his lips, too? They look so soft. Did he already say—er, think that?

“Till?”

Well. Here goes nothing.

“Close your eyes,” Till says in warning, before leaning forward and gingerly pressing their closed mouths together. Their skulls and noses collide when Ivan jerks in surprise—but then he melts against Till like jelly melts when you rub a chunk between your fingers. Ivan's hand comes up and angles Till’s face a little better. Usually Till would wonder where he learned that from, but he can’t seem to put the thought together—Ivan’s thumb is distracting him, the way it’s sweeping over his cheek, soft and mind-numbing.

When they break apart, Till’s head is pounding—maybe he smacked his head into Ivan's hard enough to get a concussion. Or it’s just his heart, beating in places it’s not supposed to.

“Happy birthday,” Ivan says blankly, with a daze to his eyes that makes Till’s cheeks burn. “I mean. Happy birthday to me.”

“Shut up,” Till chokes out. He swats Ivan’s hand off his face and turns back to his song. After a few minutes, Ivan’s head returns to his shoulder. Absently, Till runs his tongue over the right corner of his mouth, where that stupid snaggletooth drew a bead of blood.

—

Till usually stops himself from crying. It always feels like he’s letting them win, letting them think that with a bit more pressure, he’ll finally break and be a wobbly-eyed, agreeable little pet. He hates fulfilling their fantasies, but also—having his nerves pulled at for hours kind of hurts. Sometimes he can’t help it.

It’s one thing to sniffle into his knees in the dark for a few minutes then decide it never happened. It’s another thing when the door cracks open and the world’s most annoying guy comes in, gets settled on the floor, and proceeds to pin Till to the wall with his eyes like always.

“Can you look away for five seconds,” Till gets out. He tries to make it at least a little venomous, but the way he’s hiccupping spoils the effect.

“I’ll pass,” Ivan says. Till scowls and takes his wrist with more force than necessary. 

Through the layers of his skin, Ivan’s pulse gives Till’s thumb what feels like ridiculous little four-four kisses. It’s equally ridiculous how fast Till’s eyes dry—he’s still sore and sweaty and tired, but his blood runs warm, heart slowing to match Ivan’s.

Ivan catches a teardrop on his finger, staring at it in fascination. “If you lick that, I’m never holding your hand again,” Till lies. Ivan frowns, but wipes it off on his shirt and easily smiles again.

“I have a question,” he declares, digging his chin into Till’s shoulder.

Till tugs at his head by the hair, adjusting it so it doesn’t hurt as much. “Are you allergic to getting straight to the point?”

Ivan’s smile widens. “No. Why do you always calm down when you feel my pulse?”

Oh. Heat rises to Till’s cheeks. What the hell is he supposed to answer?

Pressing his finger gently into the pink skin of Till’s cheek, Ivan laughs. “C’mon. It’s just a question.”

Why does this feel harder than confessing his feelings? Till grits his teeth. “It’s the…rhythm,” he lies haltingly. “I like rhythm. Rhythm is…it’s nice. Um. Grounding.”

Even with his awful social perception skills, Ivan raises an eyebrow. Till should get an award for Universe’s Worst Liar.

He lets out a long sigh. “If you laugh, I’ll kill you.”

“Aww. You promise?” At Till’s glare, Ivan corrects himself. “I won’t laugh.”

Exhaling slowly, Till says: “I like…the reminder that you’re here. It’s—comforting. Your life. Even when it feels like I can’t come up for air, you’re always there, alive and breathing. It makes me feel like I can breathe, too.”

Instantly, the embarrassment catches up to him, and he turns his burning face away. The tiles on the floor are very interesting. They need to clean out the grout. Or maybe not—if he could get mold poisoning one of these days, that would be great.

Ivan is quiet for a long time. Then he says, with no introduction, “It’s yours.”

“...Huh?”

“My pulse, my breath, my body, all of it. My life is yours.”

Till’s heart pounds in his ears. You can’t say things like that, he thinks weakly. It’s a suffocating confession, a glimmer of rare honesty, and. He doesn’t know what to do with all of that. But he can’t leave him unanswered.

“...Then I’ll take care of it,” he says, finally. At the end of the day, it’s not that hard to return Ivan’s promise with one of his own. Even if it’s a little simpler—he means it. 

Slowly, silently, Ivan presses his happy face into Till’s shoulder. He’s not smiling, but ridiculously, Till knows he’s happy—slowly, silently, Till’s heart warms up to match.

—

In the middle of the night after the first four rounds, someone pokes Till’s cheek. Obviously it’s just Ivan, but his finger is so damn freezing that Till, rightfully alarmed, nearly falls out of his bed.

“What do you want,” Till snaps, but he’s already scooting to the right to give Ivan room on the tiny mattress. His collar is already open around his neck—Ivan was probably just staring at him for a while, the crazy bastard.

He won’t say it out loud, but after everything that happened, it’s good to see Ivan. Sua is dead and practically took Mizi with her, and two rounds from now, Till will die or Ivan will. But it’s good to see him.

There’s no way Ivan feels nothing about the first round, not with the weird connection he always had with Sua—but he’s acting the same as always, serene and solid. It’s both annoying and comforting.

Ivan runs a finger along the bandage on Till’s head, earning a small wince. “Mm, I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to congratulate you on winning your round?”

Till huffs, amused. “So you were impressed?”

“I’m always impressed when it comes to you,” Ivan says with a flat honesty that anyone else might read as sarcasm. 

Personally, Till thinks it makes the room a little too warm. He deals with it by kicking Ivan in the side, which backfires when Ivan grabs the leg to drag Till onto his lap. Till goes without much of a fight, letting his head meet Ivan’s shoulder. He’s tired, and Ivan’s comfortable. That’s all.

“I only heard a little bit of your round,” Till mumbles, eyes drooping closed. “You wrote the song, right? Sorry I didn’t hear much of it.”

He remembers hints of it—soft-string guitar, a waltzing minor melody. The throbbing in his head and the slimy blood on his face had him longing to fall asleep and forget everything, but also made that practically impossible. But then Ivan’s hypnotic voice filled his pod like water, and Till sank into a sleep as gentle as drowning.

“Don’t be,” Ivan says. “I’ll sing it for you someday, if we ever get out of here.”

That wakes Till up, and he squints through the darkness at Ivan’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you planning something?”

“No,” Ivan huffs. “Don’t get excited. I’ve just been thinking about something.”

Hmm. “You’re thinking, huh?” Till smiles a little. “That can’t be good.”

Ivan rolls his eyes. Impulsively, Till leans in and kisses him. It’s one thing to grow up waiting for Ivan or him to die on the stage, and another thing altogether to have the end a few weeks ahead of him. No matter who dies, at the end of the sixth round Till will lose him.

But there’s no way in hell he’s letting Ivan die first. If one of them has to get hurt, it should be Till. Ivan’s life is his to take care of, after all. He isn’t about to break his promise.

“For free?” Ivan teases as they pull apart. His composed smile doesn’t match the familiar dizziness in his eyes. “What’s the occasion?”

“The occasion is that I do what I want,” Till mutters, pushing Ivan’s shoulders. “Lie down, I’m going back to sleep.”

“So bossy,” Ivan laments, obediently moving into position. When Till rests his head on his chest, Ivan brings a hand up to thumb at the back of his neck. “Are you already tired of my company?”

Deciding not to answer, Till tips his ear against Ivan’s heart and closes his eyes.

It’s been a while since he last dreamed of freedom—but he wonders what it would be like to have a night like this all to themselves. To hear the steady thrum of Ivan’s heart, and expect it to beat a billion more times. To fall asleep warm and wake up warm, instead of only getting thirty minutes with Ivan in the middle of the night.

Till doesn’t know what the universe is like out of the segyein’s reach, but maybe they’d find their own little corner somewhere. It doesn’t matter to Till if they have to sleep in the dirt or something—he just hopes they can see the stars at night. That way, Ivan can wake him up at obnoxious hours to watch them, and Till can complain and grouch but go with him willingly anyway.

Till huffs a derisive little laugh—as if they’d ever find that kind of peace. But at least this ridiculous guy will be here pissing Till off until the day he dies. That’s good enough.

—

When the contestants are getting into their pods right before the fifth round, the first thing Till notices is that whatever the hell Ivan was “thinking about,” it’s almost a plan by now. He keeps staring off into space instead of at Till. There’s only really one thing he’d be thinking about so intently, with their round basically around the corner. Till decides to confront him later.

The second thing he notices is Mizi’s dead expression. Till’s stomach sinks. He’s heard gossip that Luka has some sort of condition—if all goes well, he’ll drop dead from complications or something in the middle of the round. It would also be great if Mizi just absolutely destroyed him even with her grief and all that. Till has no clue how this round is going to go, but he isn’t ready to see Mizi die.

He wasn’t all that ready to see Sua die, either. But—well. The round is starting. He doesn’t have time to think about that.

It feels like one second passes between the moment the music starts and the moment Mizi starts beating the light of life out of Luka. Then white smoke fills the stage and Till can’t see anything down there, and when he squints over at Ivan, his face is tilted down, unreadable. The smoke clears and the golden-haired prince of Alien Stage kneels there, alone in the center of the stage with blood dripping from his nose into his mouth.

Till is so confused that he doesn’t even struggle when an alien starts pulling him out of his pod. What the hell do they mean, missing—did she dissolve into thin air? But for now, there are more important things to think about, so he shakes the worry off for later.

When they get back in the hallways of contestant quarters, the aliens let them walk freely, under the illusion of being unsupervised. Till catches Ivan’s eye and jerks his head in the general direction of Ivan’s room. Ivan’s shoulders stiffen. Is he not ready to tell Till about this plan of his? Well, that’s too bad.

Till sits down on Ivan’s bed. “Spit it out.”

“I don’t have anything in my mouth.” Ivan settles down next to Till and starts playing with his fingers absently.

“Not what I meant…if you have some plan to make us both not die in two weeks, I want to hear about it.”

“Well. I had a theory,” Ivan starts very slowly, like if he speaks at the most infuriating pace ever Till will give up and just tell him to shut up. Till glares at him, but doesn’t give in. “Have you heard of any terrorist organizations recently?”

“Huh? Well, I guess. There’s that one that got blasted on the news everywhere—with that past contestant from the 49th class shooting an alien, or something? What the hell does that have to do with us?”

“Mm,” Ivan says. End of sentence. Till is going to kill him.

He scowls instead. “Ivan. Just tell me. You’ve been honest with me before, and you didn’t die. It won’t kill you to just tell me what you’re thinking.”

Ivan’s mouth twists. This time when he speaks it’s at double speed with no breaks in his tone, like he’s hoping Till just won’t catch what he’s saying. “I have reason to believe that organization is less of a terrorist organization as the aliens perceive them and more of a rebellion of sorts trying to take down the segyein-ruled system with one of their newest tactics possibly being to quote-unquote rescue Alien Stage contestants.”

“I hate you,” Till mutters, processing the audio in his head. “Rescue…” He pauses, connecting this information with that look on Ivan’s face, tilted down towards the stage. “You think they took Mizi.”

Ivan nods.

“And you think they’ll take us next round.”

Ivan nods again. Till squints at him. Why’s he so quiet?

“Then why didn’t they take Luka?”

“I don’t know,” Ivan says.

Till groans. “Am I hearing this right? We just sit around waiting for some unpredictable other person to maybe save us?” He frees one of his hands to flick him in the forehead. Ivan doesn’t even yelp. “It’s not like you to lean on one assumption. Or to rely on someone else. You have a backup plan, don’t you? Or there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Ivan is quiet for a while. Till knows him well enough to brace himself.

“If I just told you this and kept everything else to myself,” Ivan says, “and said I was one hundred percent sure we’d survive, would you trust me enough to run with it?”

Till swallows. “Well…are you? One hundred percent sure?”

Ivan looks down at Till’s fingers, then back to his face. He’s smiling weird, all soft and diluted. “Yes.”

Running the free hand through his hair, Till considers his options. He ignores that weird fragile look on Ivan’s face for now—he wants to answer as honestly as he can. But he already knows the answer, doesn’t he? Ivan lies, Till knows that, but if he had to choose between believing him or not believing him—the answer is easy.

Honestly, he doesn’t know why Ivan has to ask. At this point, Till doesn’t know what he has to do to get it in Ivan’s head that he’s crazy about him. Maybe he needs to try hitting him with a giant hammer next.

“I trust you,” Till says. It’s hard to say it so bluntly, but it’s the closest thing he has to a giant hammer. “But you’d better be right. And stop looking at me like that.”

Ivan’s smile fixes itself. “I’ll be right,” he says. His eyes crinkle. “You’ll be free.”

Till’s heart flutters. Free. “You’re really sure?” Till says, disbelieving. “Really, really sure?”

“I’m really, really sure,” Ivan laughs softly. Till tugs on his cheek affectionately.

“You’d better be right,” Till repeats, but he’s already smiling, he can feel it stretching his face. “We’re really gonna get out of here?”

“Yes,” Ivan says, staring at him with wide pupils. “Really. But we still have to work on the song and stay alive till the end of it.”

“That’s easy,” Till says, light-headed. He doesn’t know what makes him want to touch Ivan all of a sudden, but before he knows it, he’s crushing Ivan in a hug. Carefully, Ivan hugs him back, rubbing the side of his head into his. Till presses his face into Ivan’s pulse and breathes slowly.

—

If you ask Till, their song is really coming together.

It’s hard not to think about the implications of performing with Ivan on Alien Stage, but some part of Till is excited. He wants to show the world the pretty thing they’re making. He wants to smile at Ivan as they harmonize under a shared spotlight, and for four minutes, forget to fear death.

Since Till got tired of sitting still and got up to pace, Ivan has the notebook. He’s holding it up to his face so he can see it and Till at the same time while he mumbles the lyrics to check the meter.

If they both worked on every part of the song together, there’d be a lot of toe-stepping—mostly Till’s fault; he can admit that he gets a little territorial about his art. So Ivan is doing the lyrics, and Till’s taking care of the melody and the production, but they’re bouncing everything off each other when they need to.

Honestly? It’s not so bad, working with someone else. Especially when it’s Ivan, who’s studied every piece of music Till’s ever made and therefore knows exactly what Till wants to suggest before he can even open his mouth.

Ivan has the lyricism of a soggy wet creature who learned human speech entirely from melodramatic ancient poetry. But his voice makes it work—when he sings all low and woeful, he seems less pathetic and more like a wretched lover, sick with devotion, or a sinner pleading for forgiveness, or something poetic like that.

Plus, everything he writes is about Till (and also this weird motif of an inescapable dark future that he refuses to explain). And even if Till will never be interested in crushing Ivan to sand and—blowing him into pretty glass sculptures with the fire of his breath or whatever, it’s nice to be wanted.

“Suggestion,” Till starts, hooking his chin over Ivan’s shoulder. Ivan smiles at him expectantly, and Till jabs at a phrase with his finger: “You should make this here ‘soulless robot’ instead.”

He pulls away to look Ivan in the eye, pursing his lips to hold back laughter as Ivan’s smile stills, turns threatening. Ivan leans down and crosses out the phrase, writing above it: feral animal.

It should piss Till off, maybe, but somehow it’s just funny. Till laughs until Ivan’s poker face breaks and he jumps Till, lyrics forgotten in favor of rolling around on the ground for some reason.

It’s so ridiculous. Till hopes that when they’re free, they can be ridiculous all the time.

—

The Anakt Garden fake grass is green, the Anakt Garden fake sky is blue, and aliens really like their stupid little parties.

Till stands on a stage and sings the songs he’s given. He doesn’t have much else to do here, so there’s no use starting a fight for no reason, even if all these alien eyes make him nauseous. He really can’t wait to get away from these slimy bastards. And then kill all of them, hopefully.

It’s not a big deal until the opening note of “My Clematis” rings out, quiet strings meant for an almost a cappella opening. Till’s tongue freezes. The karaoke track plays on without him.

Oh my clematis, always be by my side, the lyric projector urges. Till grits his teeth. Like hell he’s going to sing the song Mizi and Sua were always singing together, off in their own little world. The song that killed them—or killed Sua, at least. The aliens can commercialize it all they like, but Till won’t help.

Something slimy grabs him by the back of the neck, jerks him back like a ragdoll. An ugly alien voice is calling him names. Till’s skin crawls under the touch. The feeling of it is just as familiar as the rising buzz of fury in his blood. What happens next is not his fault. There’s a bottle right in front of him, and the alien has one giant, vulnerable-looking eye like a target; if he didn’t want to get hit, he shouldn’t have been so goddamn ugly right in Till’s range of motion.

He loses the fight. He can kick and scream and swear all he wants, but there are so many of them and there’s just one of him, and they all want the alien to get his retribution. The large inhuman hand that presses him stomach-first into the table says: it doesn’t matter what you think. The sound of tearing fabric says: it doesn’t matter if you’re going to be free. The pain says: you are just a body to be used.  

When the door finally cracks open into the abandoned room, Till is nearly asleep, discarded against the wall. A familiar shadow falls over him, and something in Till’s chest loosens, sinking down to the bottom of his stomach.

He expects Ivan’s freezing touch to burn him, but it feels like he’s melting instead. When his collar is open, Ivan cups his face in his soft, cold hand, slow and careful. His cold nose presses to his other cheek and rubs, like he’s trying to nuzzle the warmth back into his skin.

If he notices Till’s expression relaxing, Ivan doesn’t mention it. “Cheer up,” he says softly, right before Till falls asleep.

—

“I’m on in one,” Till reads off the backstage timer, speedwalking to build momentum and keep his thoughts from going back to bad places—they haven’t drugged him much, just injected him with something for his hoarse voice, so he’s moving fine. “You nervous?”

The makeup aliens are long gone, but Ivan is still sitting in the swivel chair, swaying in semicircles. He shakes his head, but there’s something about him that feels a little off—shoulders a little too straight, eyes too bright as they follow Till around the room.

“Well. Don’t be.” Till stills to smirk at him. Even though Ivan doesn’t really look nervous, he doesn’t know what’s wrong so it’s his safest guess. “Just don’t come in late for your outro, and you’re golden.”

Ivan rolls his eyes. As he stands and walks over to Till, the weirdness from before settles into his usual ease. Much better. 

“You’re really not going to let that go?” Ivan sighs, absently sticking his fingers in Till’s belt loops. Till is glad Ivan’s not considerate enough to avoid touching him. He doesn’t think he could take it if Ivan acted differently around him.

“Nope,” Till says. “It’s historic, y’know. Number two Outstanding Student from the 50th class of Anakt Garden, forgetting how to count his measures. It needs to be documented.”

“You were distracting me,” Ivan scoffs, although his smile is that odd, soft one from before. The timer beeps above them, and their eyes jerk up in sync. 0:10.

Ivan’s fingers tug Till a centimeter closer, then pause, hesitating. Till raises an eyebrow, and for a moment Ivan just stares at him, the smile off his face. Then he plasters it back on.

The timer ticks to 0:03, and Ivan releases him. There’s this itchy feeling about everything that Till can’t shake—but everything’s going to be fine. Ivan told him he was sure, and Till believes him.

—

It’s all going so well until it isn’t.

Till sings his verse and chorus with more than his usual fire—he’s already a little drunk off the idea of finally getting out of this stupid place. The stage stands firm under his feet, Ivan’s dour lyrics lie sweet on his tongue, and the audience shrieks in his ears. 

They only get louder when Ivan walks on, sharp and gleaming under the stage lights, long lashes wetted by the fake rain. He’s goddamn ethereal. The usual exasperation with his good looks settles next to a warm sort of pride that Till doesn’t mind as much as he wants to.

Till shoots him a wild grin, which Ivan returns, sickeningly fond, as he croons his gloomy little lyrics into his mic with the voice of an angel. Even if this is still dangerous, performing with Ivan makes his heart soar and his head spin, just like he thought it would.

The song feels like it passes all too quickly. Suddenly Till is counting off the measures in his head before Ivan’s outro—and the karaoke track plays on by itself where Ivan is supposed to be singing. Reflexively, Till turns to laugh at him, but then Ivan is right there, in front of him, looking at him with wide eyes, and he’s kissing him.

The crowd goes quiet. Till shoves at him, but Ivan keeps kissing him, hard and desperate, hands rough on his jaw, kissing and kissing him like he’s trying to pry something out of him. When he pulls away, it’s with Till’s heart held captive between his teeth. Till gulps for air. He doesn’t understand.

Before he even catches his breath, Ivan’s hands wrap around his neck, pushing him back. Till follows his eyes up, up, up to the scores, the numbers on Ivan’s side sinking and sinking. Till’s heart plummets, and he kicks and he writhes, but Ivan presses down harder, keeping him in place but not cutting off his air.

The first shot makes Till flinch and Ivan’s grip loosen. Till brings his hands up, clawing at him. Ivan smiles at him, that awful, soft, fragile smile. The second shot is already ringing out before Till finally gets him off and shoves him to the ground, covering him with his body.

“Ivan,” he manages, holding Ivan’s face in his hands. Ivan looks up at him, breathing shallowly. His fragile smile has melted into something more relieved. The world narrows down to a single point—Ivan, bleeding out on the ground. Bleeding out.

“Till,” Ivan says. He starts to reach up, and his face fractures in pain. The burst of blood on his arm spreads further. Till hurriedly lowers his head to make it easier.

Ivan’s fingers brush away a strand of hair plastered to Till’s lips, smearing blood all over his mouth in the process. Till doesn’t care. He grabs the hand and kisses the fingers, presses his face into the palm, drags his lips over the pulse. He might be crying.

“Liar,” he chokes out. “You lied to me.”

“Backup plan,” Ivan says. He’s still smiling, but his eyes are clouded with tears. Till makes a pained noise like a whimper, clutching his hand tightly. “They’ll come back,” Ivan says, like Till even cares. “You’ll be free.”

“Without you?” Till’s voice breaks. “You’re so stupid.” So, so stupid. Doesn’t he get it? If Ivan dies here, some part of Till will always be stuck here, too. So, so stupid.

“I know,” Ivan says, barely audible. His eyes are drooping. There’s so much blood. Till’s stomach churns.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he pleads. “Please. Stay here.”

Ivan just smiles at him. Maybe it hurts too much to talk. He stares up at Till for a little while, until one of his blinks decides to stick. Till lurches forward, burying his face in his bloody shoulder.

A hard arm grabs his middle. Till holds onto Ivan tighter, but it drags him away, lifting him into the air. Someone is shouting his name—someone is shouting Ivan’s name, too. He thinks they’re different people. Till keeps squirming. He can’t see Ivan anymore—just a long streak of red on the stage. Did they take him? Till’s elbow hits something crunchy, almost nose-shaped, someone cries out, and the arm releases him. He can hear voices, loud voices. Is there smoke? There might be smoke. Why is there smoke? Where’d Ivan go, he can’t see him anywhere. They can’t have taken him already, they can’t…

In the end, Till is alone in the middle of the Alien Stage, soaked in Ivan’s blood.

—

There’s this dream that Till has. He’s not sure how many times it’s been. More than one, for sure.

He sits on the grass in a small body, breathing sanitized air and staring out into an endless green that stretches into a painted sky. “Till,” Ivan calls, somewhere to his right, demanding his attention.

Till tries to answer, but his jaw is glued shut. He tries to look over, but his head won’t turn and his peripheral vision has been cut off. If Ivan is poking him, Till can’t feel it.

“Till. Tiillll. Till.”

Till tries and tries, but he can’t look at Ivan. He silently prays he’ll keep asking for it anyway.

“Till. Tiiillllll.”

I’m here. I want to see you.

“Till?”

I promise I want to see you. Please.

“Till,” Ivan says, voice softening, melting away. “Till. Ti…ll…” And Till always wakes up with the name ripped from his chest and pried off his tongue, echoing in the dark. Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. Come back, I can answer you now.

It’s not a good dream, but Till likes it. Ivan says his name the way Till remembers—like he’s tried all the other sounds in the universe and found them dull in comparison.

Plus, he likes feeling like he’s the one who’s dead, and Ivan’s the one chasing a ghost. It’s always easier to be the ghost than the chaser. But then the dream ends, and Till is the one alone under a red sky with his empty hand outstretched, trying to catch air.

—

Despite being deposited in his room at the Stage the night before, Till misses his call time for Round 7, and two aliens come to drag him out of bed, exchanging useless segyein gossip like he isn’t even there. If they notice the shallow dents in the metal section of the wall and the matching bruises on Till’s knuckles, they don’t mention it.

Till has counted 37 tiles down the length of the hallway when Ivan’s guardian’s name catches his ears and freezes his blood.

“...suing the brand,” one of the aliens is saying. It’s an ugly thing, green and best described as bulbous. “I heard he put it under contract that if his human lost, he wanted to dispose of the leftovers himself, but he never got it back.”

Leftovers. Till swallows.

The other alien lets out a gross equivalent of a laugh, blue and built less like a creature and more like a collection of appendages. “He was a pretty thing, wasn’t he? Three guesses what Unsha wanted him for.”

Till’s blood roars in his ears. He presses his thumb hard against his own pulse, but it does nothing to calm him down, beating against him like a rabid animal, screaming at him to wake up, to fight. Don’t you hear what they’re saying about him?! Wake up!

One of the blue alien’s feelers lifts off the back of Till’s neck—given the other alien’s whinny of delight, he’s probably stressing his point with a crude gesture. Till whirls around, and before he knows what he’s doing his teeth are closing around the tentacle-finger-thing and tugging hard. He hears the alien screech, feels the tacky cartilage stretch and snap and stick in his gums like floss, but he keeps grinding his teeth down, even through the sickening taste of segyein blood, even when he hits something crunchy.

When the digit comes loose in his mouth, Till spits. It lands with a small plop on the tiled floor, oozing a pool of sticky bluish goo. 

Something slimy grabs his neck, shoving his knees onto the ground and his face into the puddle. The smell and taste churn his stomach, but he can hear the alien—croaking and sobbing like a baby—and he feels nothing but satisfaction.

A thick needle sinks into the nape of his neck, and the satisfaction melts into nothing at all.

When he comes back to reality, he’s sitting backstage again. They’ve brushed the blood and gunk out of his teeth—his mouth tastes like toothpaste. An alien with what looks like five hundred arms is spritzing setting spray on his face even though his eyes are open. 

The winner of Alien Stage Season 49, who spent four minutes on stage with the sweetest person in the universe and somehow was the last straw for her to choose violence, eyes him from the second swivel chair.

Slowly, Till looks back at him. He’s not sure what kind of expression’s on his face—but whatever it is, it makes Luka smile, slow and butter-smooth on perfect pink lips. Till is sick of him already.

Well. Ivan wants—wanted—Till to survive this round, and for better or for worse (probably for worse) Till still cares about his opinion. So if he can get his voice to work, Till will sing, just for him. Whether it’s Till or Luka who dies tonight, good riddance.

—

The music starts up—this song is all Luka, or at least all Luka’s…marketing team or whatever. He seems like the kind of pet to have a marketing team. Anyway, the point is, Till didn’t write it. He thinks he knows the lyrics.

Till starts singing—he stands still and lets the exhaustion seep into every word, not caring that the lyrics themselves are bright and romantic. Shocked by Till’s new style of singing, the crowd oohs and ahhs. They did that when Ivan got shot, too. Till wants to strangle them one by one.

Luka watches him with a benign smile until his solo verse starts. The crowd shrieks in anticipation. When he opens his mouth, Till swears the ground slips out from under his feet. It’s Luka in front of him, it’s his voice that’s singing—but for a moment he swears it’s Ivan. Something about the—the cadence, or— something— what the hell? He doesn’t—

Iv— Luka keeps singing those sweet words, his voice dark and warm, and his pronunciation—the way he tilts the words on his tongue, it’s all Ivan. If Till closes his eyes, it’s Ivan. He—he doesn’t get it. It’s not Ivan. It’s not Ivan.

My life is yours, Ivan murmurs in his ear, sounding a little softer, years younger. 

Shut up, shut up—

I’ll take care of it, Till promises in the other. Till chokes. He’s sorry, he’s so sorry. He didn’t mean to break his promise. He didn’t even try to stop him. He’s sorry. If he apologizes, will Ivan forgive him and come back?

Till squeezes his eyes shut tightly. A little suspension of disbelief, and Ivan’s voice rings all around him, soothing him. The world goes quiet—it’s just him and Ivan, and Ivan is singing for him.

This lasts about five seconds before Till’s fussy little brain raises concerns. Suddenly, Ivan’s voice has too much air, he’s enunciating too much. Till’s eyes peel open. 

Right. It’s that stupid blond mayonnaise bastard. Till exhales slowly, white-knuckling his mic.

Goddammit, was he seriously imitating Ivan?! More importantly, if Till reaches over and snaps his neck right now before the roboguards can shoot him, will he technically win the round?

Luka gives him a fragile little smile, eyes curving—clearly imitating that last smile on Ivan’s face before Till shoved him to the ground. One of the last expressions he ever saw on Ivan’s face. 

Till doesn’t know what kind of sound he makes, but he feels it tear from his throat, and then Luka is wide-eyed on the floor under him, his skinny neck purpling under Till’s hands. Before he can press down, a hard arm wraps around his middle, jerking him back. Till howls in dissatisfaction, kicking and writhing.

“I know, I know,” Mizi’s voice says next to his ear, “but we really have to go. I’m not leaving you here this time.”

Heart leaping into his throat, Till snaps his head back to stare at her. “Mizi,” he gasps. She’s real and solid, her eyes harder than before but still bright, holding him up in the air with one arm like he weighs nothing, and her nose is bandaged up, and her hair—what? That’s. That’s new—but then the shock fades, and his stomach sinks. “He was right. You’re here to take me away.”

“Yeah! You don’t seem very surprised?” She presses a hand to the device in her ear and starts to walk away from the stage now that Till has stopped fighting. Panic jolts through him, and he scratches her steely arm, trying to get her off, but she just tightens her grip. “Ow! Till, don’t—”

“Mizi, I can’t,” he chokes out, his voice weak to his own ears. “Not without—without. You know.”

Mizi stares at him, brows knitted in confusion, before light sparks in her eyes. “Oh—crap. Till,” Mizi says, hurriedly stumbling over her words, “he’s alive. Ivan’s alive.”

Till’s heart pounds in his ears. No. He’s not going to do this again.

Mizi is still talking. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve started with that, he’s—he’s fine. He’s awake, too! Please believe me! We have him back at the base, he’s—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Till forces out.

“I’m not lying!” Mizi pleads. “Please. I know you probably don’t believe me. But if there was a chance he was alive, wouldn’t you take it?”

It’s a very smart, very Mizi thing to say. Till deflates almost instantly. “I might not be able to walk,” he says instead of directly agreeing. “I’m kinda—drugged.”

“That’s okay,” Mizi says, beaming at him. Her smile is different—closed-mouthed. She shifts Till onto her back and starts running.

Till is probably being stupid again. Mizi is his friend and wants him alive. She’s never been the type to lie before, but she seems different now—she could lie to him, if it meant getting something she needed. Till doesn’t know.

Also: there’s a non-zero chance this is all just a hallucination. He’s had weirder ones before.

But Mizi is already carrying him, shouting things that make no sense into her earpiece. He might as well see what happens and deal with the consequences later.

If there’s a chance he can see Ivan, then yeah. He’ll take it.

At some point, even with the gunshots around them and the constant jostling from Mizi running, Till closes his eyes—not to sleep, he’s just too tired to keep them open. His head is getting fuzzy again, and he doesn’t really think about anything at all.

—

They get out of there somehow, and then they’re in a pod out in open space, and then Mizi is shaking him awake, tugging him out and onto cold desert ground. He looks up slowly, and sees the stars.

“You probably want to see Ivan right away, huh?” Mizi says good-naturedly. Till blinks at her slowly. They’re in a hallway now, Mizi holding his wrist and tugging him along. “I’ll give you the tour tomorrow…unless Hyuna wants to do it.”

Till runs his hand through his hair, gripping at the roots. “He’s really here?”

“Mhm,” Mizi says. “He’s awake—although right now, he’s probably sleeping. He was only out for a couple of days. He can’t be out of bed yet, though.”

“Huh?”

“...You can just see for yourself,” Mizi says. She stops at a door. “If you don’t want to wake him, you should probably go in quietly. One time, I breathed a little too loud on my way in and he sat up so fast, he’s such a light sleeper…”

Till stares at the door. “Light sleeper,” he says blankly.

“Yeah…” Mizi sounds a little awkward. The twinge of guilt wakes Till up, and he looks at her with a sheepish smile.

“Uh, thank you,” he says. “Really.” Even if you’re just a very vivid hallucination, Till thinks.

Mizi smiles back. “Of course,” she says. Till feels like he’s supposed to say something else, maybe say he missed her or that he’s sorry about Sua—actually, he probably shouldn’t mention that—but then she flutters her hand in the direction of the door. “Go ahead. You can figure everything else out in the morning. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah. Sounds good,” Till manages. Mizi waves goodbye, and he waves back. 

His skin feels uncomfortable when she’s gone—nothing here is familiar, it’s just him and this weird little door. But he has to open it, so he does.

The first thing Till notices when he steps in is all the wires and tubes coming up from the bed. Bile rising in his throat, he presses the back of his hand against his mouth hard. The sight, the medical smell—he bites down on his hand, trying to kill the urge to rip every single tube out of the man lying there and drag him far, far away from here. 

He repeats to himself: hallucination-Ivan was in good hands. Hallucination-Mizi was taking care of him. This is not what his brain thinks it is.

He feels a little ridiculous for entertaining this, but that’s nothing new, so he shuffles closer. There’s a chair pushed up against the wall—he carries it to the side of the bed instead of scooting it over, so the scraping sound won’t wake Ivan. He sits down and looks at him carefully.

Ivan’s eyelashes cast dark shadows on his cheeks. His skin is paler and a little bit oily. His hair still looks soft, but it’s curling at the ends because he hasn’t been attacking it with a straightener.

He looks—messy. Raw. Devastatingly beautiful. 

If it turns out all of this is real, Till is going to kill him when he wakes up. Half because he’s a manipulative bastard and broke something in Till that can’t be fixed, and half because he just shouldn’t be allowed to look that beautiful.

Till stretches to get closer to him, resting his upper abdomen on the bed and his head by Ivan’s. Ivan’s breath brushes his bangs, almost imperceptible, and Till has to bury his face in his arms to smother the pained sound that tries to come out.

Ivan keeps breathing—so slowly, tickling Till’s forehead. It’s not enough. Till needs more, he needs to reach into him and squeeze his beating heart—he needs to hold his carotid pulse captive in between his teeth, needs to know Ivan’s life is still Till’s and no one took it away from him after all.

Till digs his nails into the inside of his elbow. Ivan breathes in, so Till breathes in. Ivan breathes out, so Till breathes out.

If this is a hallucination, it’s a merciful one, and lets him sleep.

—

Till wakes up with a hand carding through his hair. At first he thinks it’s an alien, but then the fingers gentle, kneading little circles into his scalp instead.

“Hello,” Ivan says. 

Tears spring to Till’s closed eyes. God, how did he ever confuse that croaking old man’s voice for this one?

“Welcome back to the land of the living. I was waiting for you to wake up.”

Each dip in Ivan’s voice, the little huffs of air between sentences— everything, everything is a tiny miracle. Everything hurts so goddamn much.

Ivan’s hand smooths down the side of Till’s head to cup his cheek, curious fingers swiping over a new bruise under his eye. It stings, but Till is more focused on how he can’t breathe, and he reaches up to clutch Ivan’s wrist hard, digging his thumb nail-first into his pulse point.

A steady beat—a bit quicker than usual. Excited to see me, Till thinks deliriously, turning his face into Ivan’s palm, rubbing the skin over his forehead, letting Ivan’s pulse vibrate through his own thumb. Trying to calm the hell down.

The hand on his face is cold and smooth and broad, the fingers long and slender—firm-boned, soft-tipped. The hand of a man who was only taught instruments that don’t bite back, who probably uses some crazy expensive cream. Ivan’s hand.

“I hate you,” Till croaks, sick with relief. “I hate you so much.”

“I know.” His tone is tender—Till can hear his smile, and it makes him squeeze his eyes tighter shut. “Won’t you look at me? I missed you.”

Heart seizing painfully, Till shakes his head.

“No?”

“Can’t,” Till chokes out.

Failing to pry Till’s eyes open with his fingers, Ivan huffs, a little shaky. “What are you so afraid of? Me?”

“Yes.” The word squeezes its way out of Till’s throat. “What if—what if I open my eyes and you just—aren’t there?”

“I think you’re overestimating your imagination,” Ivan teases. “You really think you hallucinated the entire base? Mizi’s new haircut? Me wearing a shirt with color?”

This catches Till’s attention. “You’re wearing color?” he mumbles.

“Mm. Didn’t you notice when you came in?”

Till wrinkles his nose. He did not, in fact, think to check what the bastard was wearing.

“See? If your itty bitty brain—” Ivan punctuates this with a condescending little kiss in between Till’s furrowed brows— “isn’t observant enough to notice something that obvious, why would it be able to make up something like this?”

Glaring at him from behind his eyelids is not enough. Till opens his eyes and Ivan smiles at him, victorious. His curling hair falls into his face with easy perfection. He is wearing a t-shirt that he clearly did not pick out himself, given its short sleeves and neck that doesn’t start with “turtle.” Also, it’s dark green.

Ivan catches Till easily when he lunges, balancing him on his thighs and settling Till’s arms around his waist. He takes Till’s face in between his steady hands and they sit like that for a while until Till starts to shake.

“Don’t cry,” Ivan murmurs, catching each tear with a soft thumb. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t forgive you,” Till chokes out, only kind of meaning it. All of Ivan’s crimes pale in comparison to the fact that he’s alive and breathing, but there’s still a knife in his gut with Ivan’s fingerprints on the handle. What is he supposed to do with that?

Ivan’s mouth twists. “I understand,” he recites smoothly. “My actions were impermissible, and I understand if you would like to end things here—”

“Shut up,” Till snaps, still sniffling, and Ivan shuts up. “Are you seriously giving me a business apology right now? I hope I’m more important to you than some goddamn colleague you rubbed the wrong way. I know you aren’t even sorry, so don’t give me that scripted—”

At some point, Ivan’s eyes have lowered, the familiar pressure of his gaze lifting off of Till’s face. Till’s stomach drops, heart pounding in his ears. It’s stupid, it’s so stupid, Ivan is right there and his hands are still on Till’s face, but now everything is— wrong and he can’t—

“Ivan,” Till manages, voice raw. “Ivan, look at me.”

Ivan’s eyes flit back up, bright with alarm. He rubs the wrinkle between Till’s eyebrows until it relents, and Till’s face relaxes.

“You were saying?” Ivan prompts lightly.

Right.

“What do you mean, ‘end things’?!” Till hisses. “Are you expecting me to just leave you here like this and ride off into the sunset? I don’t have anywhere to go without you and you don’t want to let me go either, so don’t—act like it’s even an option. I don’t mind that you hurt me, just. Make it better.”

Ivan blinks for a moment, assessing. “I don’t know how,” he says.

Till tips forward, dropping his head into the crook of Ivan’s neck, Ivan’s hands sliding over his hair to smooth down his back. There are thick ridges under Ivan’s shirt where Till’s body presses into his. Bandages.

God, he’s trembling so hard. “Think of something yourself.”

Ivan hums. “I can sing that song for you.” Despite himself, Till perks up; Ivan snorts. “There are instruments at the bar where Hyuna likes to perform. I’ll tell you the chord progression, and you can play the guitar for me while I sing and play the piano parts. Would you like that?”

Till remembers the last time they performed together and shudders, half excitement and half dread.

“It’ll just be you and me,” Ivan says, softer. “Promise.”

Till’s heart warms. Even when Till thinks he’s been broken beyond recognition, Ivan knows him far too well—Till will have to consider killing him to keep him quiet.

“I’d like that,” he huffs into Ivan’s neck. “I’d like that a lot.”

Before Ivan can move, he leans in and presses a brief kiss to Ivan’s stupid snaggletooth, then kisses him properly. Ivan kisses back immediately—not desperate, just eager. This time, he doesn’t try to rip Till’s heart out of his chest as a souvenir—it’s more like Till pours it willingly into his mouth, and Ivan is all too happy to drink it up. Kind of ridiculous, but Till is used to that by now.

Ivan’s arms wind tight around Till’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, like he’s trying to squeeze out every atom of empty air between them. Like this, Till can’t get away. He’s glad Ivan’s starting to realize he doesn’t want to.