Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beings are born with certain knowledge etched into the very essence of their existence.

Humans know they must breathe, and from the moment they are born, they gasp greedily for air. Turtles, instinctively, head toward the ocean, as though they’ve always known it is home. Some creatures, desperate for love, imprint on the first being they encounter, seeking connection as though it is the very thing that will keep them alive.

The little boy, for all his differences, was no exception. He too, was born with a certain knowledge ingrained in his bones: that there was not a single thing lovable about him.

The first time he truly acknowledges this, he was already old enough to walk and understand the difference between the fights he could win and those he cannot. He sat before a makeshift fire in the only place he has ever found that felt even a little safe, curling his body against the chill that seeps through the cracks of the city’s streets.

As the flames flicker, his reflection distorts, dancing across the fire’s surface. He sees his matted hair–unruly, tangled, and ugly–and his eyes, black and hollow, like two endless voids that drain all light. His teeth jut out awkwardly, sharp and wrong. Not even the strangest of segyein would ever claim to share such a feature. His body is gaunt, bones protruding, hands scarred beyond recognition.

Education had never been something he actively sought. He never learned to read, never bothered with etiquette, and never understood social norms. His world was one of survival: he knew the city’s alleys and shortcuts like the back of his hand, mapping out escape routes to avoid a beating, memorizing the shifts of the segyein so he could steal food when no one was looking, learning the subtle differences between those he could trick and those he couldn’t.

Even so, there was one thing he knew for sure, despite his ignorance of most everything else: he was filthy.

Perhaps he had known it for a long time, but only now, that truth settled deep in his chest like a weight too heavy to ignore. He had felt it in the looks that followed him. Pity, rage, and disgust. Eyes that saw him for what he was, and what he was not.

He leans closer to the fire, staring, staring, staring at his distorted reflection in the flames. Long enough for the figure in the fire to stop resembling him at all and become only a warped, unfamiliar shape. Long enough for the fire to eventually flicker out, leaving only the cold. Long enough for him to wonder what living as someone else would be like.

Would it be as miserable as this?

.

Ending up in a shop was nothing less than expected.

Humans, for all their desperation and raging despair, always end up in the same places. Sold, killed, experimented on, or dying in some futile attempt at defiance. Given his options, this outcome seemed as preferable as any.

There, in his white cage, he saw, for the first time, a boy much like himself.

Humans were rare in the streets, and the few he had encountered were bigger, stronger. Survivors in a world that chewed up the weak until there was nothing left. This boy, on the other hand, was nothing like them.

Perhaps that was why he couldn’t look away. His own soulless eyes locked onto the boy’s bright, innocent ones.

At first, his appraisal was cynical: the boy looked soft. Too soft. The type to die in the streets within a week, deprived of the instincts needed to survive such a brutal world.

But as the day passed, with the only movement between them being the occasional shift of the segyein entering the shop to change the sign in front of the other boy’s cage, something in his perception shifted too.

The boy didn’t stop trying to engage with him. Even though neither could speak, the other used gestures, trying to get his attention. At first, he simply ignored him, as it wouldn’t change anything.

But the boy didn’t give up. Each time their eyes met, teal eyes sparkling with a kind of emotion impossible to name, he would try again. The silent gestures, the quiet attempts to communicate–they were stubborn, insistent, something he couldn't bring himself to understand.

And then, the longer he watched, the more his opinion changed. The boy no longer looked useless, no longer like an easy target for the streets. He became something more, though he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. No matter how much he thought about it, the feeling evaded him, like a word on the tip of his tongue.

And then, one day like any other, the boy was gone.

He had been there the night before, but when he woke, he was alone. The other boy’s cage was empty.

A foreign sensation surged inside his chest, a sharp pang. He didn’t know what it was at first. It wasn’t hunger, not quite, but it hurt all the same. He tried to name it, to figure it out, now that there was nothing else to do but think.

And then, it came to him. What he had felt when he looked at the boy.

The boy had been like a flower.

Once, he had found a red flower in a place he had spent the night. It grew from a crack in the warped pavement, its delicate beauty a stark contrast to the harshness of its surroundings. He had watched it bloom for hours, entranced by the fragile life pushing through the concrete, until he couldn’t resist reaching out to touch it.

Its petals were soft, more tender than anything he’d ever felt. He caressed it gently, mesmerized by the texture, until, in his trance, he pressed too hard. One petal fell off. Then another. Then all of them.

Flowers took time to grow, especially in such a cruel environment, yet that one had persistently bloomed, against all odds, only to crumble at the touch of his affection.

It discouraged him for a while, until he rationalized it. It made sense, after all. Ugly, deranged creatures like him only brought ruin to the beautiful, the mesmerizing. That’s how life worked, he thought.

The boy, with sparkling eyes not yet tainted by the world’s ugliness, with a perseverance and determination you couldn’t find anywhere else, was much like one of them.

The realization made the tightness in his chest eased, just a little. And for the first time in his short but harsh life, he made a wish for someone else.

He wished the boy could bloom somewhere far, far away from there, in a place where the soil was rich and kind, where the light always warmed those beneath it and the air didn’t carry the harsh scent of decay.

The boy needed water, he realized. Constant, gentle streams of care, something soft enough to nourish him, not drown him. He imagined him bathed in light, the kind that didn’t burn, that didn’t scorch and wither.

Here, in the cold shadows of the shop, there was no warm light, no gentle rain. Nothing could grow there, not with the air thick with despair and the sting of cruelty in every corner. Not with the blinding walls of white.

As he closed his eyes once again, welcoming the sleep that was surely a mercy to ones like him, he cradled his foolish and impossibly naive wish close to his heart.

.

Of all the ripe fruit in a harvest, there is always one that is rotten. The little boy had always known he was that one, the outlier, standing out like a flaw in an otherwise perfect pattern.

The first segyein who bought him was intrigued by his unique teeth but returned him when he proved to be a disappointment. The second one threatened to toss him out of a building just to provoke a reaction that never came. The third was looking for someone more fit, which he wasn’t. The fourth, fifth, and sixth were no different. They all wanted something from him that he couldn’t give, no matter how hard he tried.

It was understood by all that unwanted goods were disposable. When he made his way back to the same shop from which he had been sold, and the owner looked at him with unmistakable disdain, he knew his time was running out. It was then that he figured out the passcode to his cage and began fiddling with his collar, just in case escape ever became necessary.

That was also when Unsha and his wife came into the picture.

They placed him aboard a spaceship, and as the vast cosmos stretched outside the windows like an old friend welcoming him home, he knew that, sooner or later, they would bring him back to the shop and that would likely be his last chance to be sold again. He was prepared to run when that moment came.

But then, something unexpected happened.

Unsha was not a creature who accepted failure, and that philosophy extended, of course, to his acquisitions.

The first thing his new owner did was fit him with a translator. No one had ever afforded him such a luxury, not for a creature who seemed to deserve it so little. To him, the message was not one of kindness, but of cold practicality: he wasn’t going anywhere. He was an investment.

The second thing he was given was the true foundation of his life. Unsha laid out his sole purpose: to be the instrument of his wife’s happiness. To achieve this, perfection was the bare minimum. Perfect grades, perfect performance, perfect manners, perfect silence. He soon learned to walk a tightrope, knowing a single misstep meant his undoing.

He was bathed, clothed, and given a structured routine. The hungry desperate kid who had fought to survive was systematically erased. In his place was Ivan, a name that felt less like an identity and more like a brand. Gazing at his reflection in the polished surface of the mark etched into his skin so deeply it touched the bone there, he didn’t recognize the placid, empty-eyed creature staring back.

From that moment, Ivan learned how to stand out without ever truly standing out. Unlike the other pets, he didn’t cry, demand, or misbehave. He didn’t shout, throw tantrums or caused a scene. Instead, he adapted, as he had always done, learning to read the subtle tension in Unsha’s posture, the faint annoyance in his tone, the specific desire in his wife’s gaze. He understood that some days required a performance of cheerful vitality, and others, one of somber grace. Ivan understood that on some days, they wanted one thing from him, and on other days, something entirely different.

Ivan wasn’t frustrated, though he felt the weariness of the constant performance. The atmosphere around him demanded perfection, and feeling anything at all, whatever little he could feel, would only complicate things, making him a burden to those around him. So, he learned to mute his emotions.

None of his owners had ever needed to say it aloud: they did not want him. They wanted a human-shaped object that followed orders. So that is precisely what he became: incredibly skilled at reading desire and delivering exactly what was required. His presence was only ever needed when he was useful, so he learned to disappear before he could be dismissed.

So, when a night came when Unsha patted his head and his wife showed him with compliments for being everything except what he was, Ivan could not bring himself to care. However, sometimes, late at night, as he looked into the mirror in his room, he wondered what was the purpose of a being who is only valued when it disappears completely.

He did that a lot, thinking, that is. Thus, it was impossible to pinpoint the exact moment he finally understood that he was a person, and yet, simultaneously, was not.

.

Unsha’s manor was quiet. There was no sound of faraway fights or quiet talks between spaces as he was so used to in the slums he had lived in. It was almost like a detached place from their reality, as if whatever was happening outside did not matter, because that place would always stay tranquil.

Some nights, he quite liked that. That feeling of being away from everything. It was disorienting but also relaxing in a way, helping calm his turbulent mind. However, some days, the walls stretched too wide and the smile he wore felt too wrong on his face, making him undeniably wonder if he was meant to be there. If he was not some kind of cosmic mistake.

The point is, the manor, sometimes, felt like it had teeth and he was a little helpless creature being digested by it.

The days passed in a blur of things, turning into memory much like those days he spent at the slums did. They were not painful nor evoked any desperate feeling within him, but it made something wrong stir inside him just the same.

The planet was a weird place, always dark. There was no natural light to know when it was morning or not, but Ivan knew he woke up earlier than most, when the mansion wasn’t filled with people.

His routine, albeit exhausting, was simple.

He did early exercise to keep his body in shape to be worthy enough to be shown at Unsha’s wife's parties. He came back, took a shower, and styled himself the exact way she liked: hair neat, clothes covering every inch of his body in pale colors. He went to have breakfast with them. Not at the same table nor room, of course, but in the room adjacent, with the other pets they kept in there.

When that was done, he studied whatever they laid out for him first. When he first arrived, it was etiquette classes and how to read and write. Then, it started to expand to other horizons: the planet’s language, how to play the weird instruments they had there, and so on.

Afternoon would come and he would go to Unsha’s wife to be in complete and utter silence at her parties until he was allowed to speak whatever she wanted. Sometimes, he felt like furniture. Don’t talk, just sit there and look pretty, she would always say, and so, he did.

Then, they would have dinner and he would study some more, until sleep started to start to get to him and he went to sleep.

If asked, he could not reconstruct a single day. His memories were not a linear narrative but a collection of sensory fragments: the stark pain of correction, bright pangs of fear (red, intense, warning), and the sepia-tinted recollection of waiting. Waiting in lines. Waiting for fuzzy-edged figures who were veterinarians. Waiting to be called by someone. Waiting to be dismissed.

But it was in the rare moments he interacted with the other pets that he knew they were the same, yet different. They were not like him.

That certainty stemmed from that place where Ivan, all his life, has suspected there’s a certain light within anyone else. Within people. There, on his ruined heart, is the reason that there is no light coming from within. That instead, he’s got an incurable itch to scratch. The knowledge that something’s amiss, in there.

The one who received the name Ethan cried when he thought no one was around. Ivan heard the noises in passing.

The one with the red short hair had been punished sometimes, refusing to do whatever Unsha’s wife requested of her.

The one shorter than the rest, younger, always spoke of what he would do if he ever got out, even when they both knew that day would never come.

One, the oldest of all of them, cheery and energetic as anyone in that mansion could be, was the first and only one he ever saw get shot trying to escape.

This is what happens to those who can’t follow basic orders. Learn from it, Unsha had spoken then. Ivan didn’t feel like he needed the reminder as much as the others. The thought of escaping never once crossed his mind, much less rebelling or mourning his time there. There, he had food, shelter, and a purpose. The demands were heavy, but they were preferable to the raw struggle of surviving another day in the gutter.

The point is, he wasn’t like them. No one had to hold his wrist and peel back the sleeve to reveal the mark–it was etched into him, a manufacturer’s code. Ivan was a product, not a person in the traditional sense. He was engineered, cultivated, grown, and mass-produced.

"Ivan" wasn’t a name. Not in the way humans used to have names. It was simply a designation. A manufactured thing is stamped, cataloged. It doesn’t get a name like a person does.

He was a person, but at the same time, he was not.

Ivan knows he's real–alive, breathing, and made of flesh, bone, muscle, and blood. But he's not just an accidental being. He was crafted, designed with purpose, with intention. The idea of living for the sake of living? That’s not his path. He exists for a reason, not to merely survive.

That’s why, when they demanded him–not asked, no one ever asked–to go to the Garden to train and finally compete in the Alien Stage, he did not despair. It was bound to happen, he thought.

Unsha called him to his office, a place reserved for serious declarations. Inside, two other humans were already standing at attention before the large desk: a girl with long hair he sometimes saw in the kitchens, and a boy who tended the gardens. Unsha sat behind the desk, sipping from a cup of something dark and unfamiliar.

Ivan took his place, posture perfect, face neutral, hands carefully hidden behind his back. Unsha did not like nervousness. He did not take futile emotions lightly.

“Maria, Vi, and Ivan,” Unsha began, his words translated into a sterile, monotone voice by the device in Ivan’s ear. Ivan had once read about meat stock–in some books written in a human language forgotten in the manor’s library–how humans would breed creatures for a singular purpose. He felt like one now. “You three will compete for me.”

Unsha slowly placed his cup down on the desk. His eyes flickered over them, assessing. Sometimes, Unsha wanted silent obedience. Other times, he wanted the pretense of inquiry. Judging by the deliberate pause, Ivan gambled on the latter.

“Compete where, sir?” he asked, his voice carefully modulated. He clenched one hand behind his back, hoping his guess was correct. The punishments for speaking out of turn were not something he wanted to endure once again.

Unsha’s gaze settled on him, and for a terrifying moment, Ivan was certain his gamble had failed. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

“You three will go to Anakt Garden,” Unsha stated, the translator stripping all inflection from the words, rendering them flat and absolute. “There, you will train and compete in the upcoming 50th edition of Alien Stage. Your performance there is a direct reflection of this household. Of me.”

He looked at all of them now.

“I hope you understand what failure means.”

Death. Failure means death.

He saw Maria’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Vi drew a sharp, quiet breath. They understood the implications. To compete was to be placed on a pedestal for the entire galaxy to see. And to fail was to be broken in front of them all.

“You will be leaving tomorrow,” Unsha continued, his attention already drifting back to the dark liquid in his cup, the audience clearly over. “Prepare them,” he said, not to them, but to an attendant who materialized silently from the shadows near the door.

The dismissal was clear. Ivan turned on his heel, the movement precise and practiced, and followed the attendant out, the other two humans falling into step behind him. The door hissed shut, sealing Unsha away once more.

The attendant, a slender segyein with skin the color of tarnished silver, led them without a word toward somewhere in the manor he was not familiar with, and the three of them remained quiet, until it stopped before three identical doors.

“Your belongings have been packed. Rest. You depart at first cycle.” The segyein did not wait for a response, turning and going back down the hall.

For a moment, the three of them stood in the hallway and finally let the emotions show. Maria hugged her arms around herself, her face pale. Vi stared at the floor, his jaw clenched tight. Ivan did not particularly care, immediately going inside the appointed room.

A single bag sat on the place most likely designed for him to sleep on. His entire life, condensed into one portable unit. Ignoring it, he walked to the window, looking out at the perpetual twilight of the planet. There were no stars visible through the thick atmospheric haze, only a dull, orange glow, being slightly obscured by his own reflection.

A stranger staring back.

As he stood there, analyzing the odds, a single, aberrant question surfaced from the depths of his carefully muted consciousness–a thought that felt entirely his own, not a calculation, not an observation.

He wondered what that stranger would see reflected in the artificial grass of the Anakt Garden. If it would feel like it was any better than here, or not.

Then, one of his hands carefully touched his reflection on the window, and he found something surprising there. His hand, which was previously clenched, had marked his palm so hard it had drawn blood in certain parts.

The sight gave him pause. Four small, crimson crescents bloomed in the pale skin of his palm, welling up from where his own nails had bitten deep. A thin trickle of blood traced a path down his wrist, stark against the clinical white of his sleeve.

Huh.

.

The next day, a spaceship waited for the three of them. The bay was cold and smelled of ozone and recycled air, a stark contrast to the perfumed halls of the manor. Just as the ramp began to close with a hydraulic sigh, a flurry of movement and distress echoed from outside.

"Wait! Stop the ramp!"

Unsha’s wife, her elaborate robes flowing behind her, hurried into the bay, with Unsha following at a more sedate pace. Her large, luminous eyes scanned the three of them before she zeroed in on Ivan. She rushed forward, bypassing the other two as if they were mere cargo containers.

"Oh, my dear Ivan! My sweet, perfect boy!" She threw her arms around him, pulling him into a crushing embrace that smelled overwhelmingly of flowers. Ivan remained perfectly still, his arms at his sides, his face a neutral mask even as his ribs protested the pressure.

For a single, fleeting moment, a spark of something slightly warm and utterly foreign flickered in the frozen cavern of his chest. It was the physicality of the embrace, the illusion of care. He thought, perhaps, she might say she didn't want him to go. That he would be missed.

The spark died as quickly as it came.

She drew back, holding his shoulders, her bottom lip trembling with dramatic flair. "You must be magnificent," she whispered, though it was loud enough for everyone to hear. "You must win for me. Just think of it! When they see you, when they see what you can do! Oh, everyone will be so envious! Lady Trasha will be green with envy, since her clumsy pet won nothing last season. And you, my beautiful, perfect thing, you will bring such glory to our house!"

She patted his cheek, then his shoulder, her gestures growing more forceful with her excitement. Her large, heavy hand came down on his hair with a series of firm, condescending pats, heavy enough to make his head shake with the pressure. A fresh jolt of pain radiated from it, but he didn't flinch nor breathe differently.

He had never told her it hurt.

Unsha placed a restraining hand on his wife's arm. "That's enough, my dear. You're unsettling the boy. The schedule is precise. They must go."

His wife sniffled, dabbing at non-existent tears with a delicate cloth. "Of course, of course. Be perfect, Ivan!" She called out as she was gently led away.

Ivan quickly went inside once more and the ramp sealed shut, cutting off the world of perfumed oppression and replacing it with the sterile hum of the ship's engines. The silence in the bay was immediate and absolute.

From the corner of his eye, Ivan saw Vi staring resolutely at the floor, his jaw a hard line, while Maria had wrapped her arms around herself again, looking small and lost. Figuring out talking wouldn’t do any good, since they would be competing anyway, he swiftly found a place to sit and stayed there, the picture of compliance.

Time, measured only by the ship’s chronometer, bled away. Hours became a day, until a chime sounded, smooth and artificial. "Approaching descent vector. Prepare for planetary landing."

The ship shuddered as it breached the atmosphere, the gentle hum escalating to a grating roar. Ivan felt the pressure change in his ears. Maria jolted awake, her eyes wide with fresh terror. Vi’s jaw tightened further, his knuckles white.

Then, silence again. They had landed.

A hiss echoed through the cabin as the ramp began to lower. Ivan expected another sterile corridor, another grey, impersonal space. Instead, the light that flooded in was not the flat white of ship-lighting, but the chaotic, pulsating neon of a megalopolis.

The ramp revealed a city that defied scale. Towers of chrome and synth-stone pierced a sky hazy with smog and the glow of countless advertisements. Hover-vehicles weaved through impossible canyons between buildings, their paths a silent, streaking ballet of light. The sound was a distant, constant roar–the breath of a billion lives. It was so vast, so layered and dense, that the eye could find no true end to it.

The city was the world.

They were met by two robot guards who carried rifles held loosely but ready. One gestured with a hand. "Out. Proceed toward the waiting vehicle for further instructions."

Ivan was the first one to go and Vi came last. He didn't look at the city. His eyes were locked on the guards, on their rifles, on the open platform edge that dropped away into a dizzying abyss of light and motion.

They were halfway to the idling transport when Vi broke.

It wasn't a scream or a shout. It was a raw, guttural sound of pure animal panic. He spun and ran, not toward the vehicle, but toward the platform's edge as a futile, desperate flight toward the illusion of freedom the sprawling city offered.

"Stop." One of the guards said, the synthesized voice devoid of urgency.

Vi didn't stop.

The other guard didn't yell again. He simply raised his rifle in one smooth, practiced motion. There was no loud bang, only a sharp crack-hiss of compressed air, and a projectile, too small to see, struck Vi in the back of his leg.

He cried out, a short, sharp sound of surprise and agony, and went down hard on the polished platform floor. A bloom of vivid red spread rapidly across his grey trousers, the color shockingly bright against the metal and the distant neon glow.

Maria screamed. It was a high, piercing sound of pure horror that was instantly swallowed by the city's immense, indifferent roar.

The guards were already moving, holstering their weapons and walking toward the writhing form on the ground with calm, unhurried steps. This was clearly not an unusual occurrence.

The one on the left reached for him, but Vi wasn't trying to get up. He wasn't trying to fight.

His eyes, wide and desperate, met Ivan's for a fraction of a second. They were not just full of defiance, but of a profound, absolute deficiency–a lack of hope, a lack of options, a lack of anything left to lose.

"I'm not going there," he gasped, the words barely audible over the city's hum.

Then, with a surge of strength born of pure terror, he rolled. Not away from the guard, but toward the platform's edge. There was no barrier, only a sheer drop into the dizzying canyon of light and motion below.

For a heart-stopping moment, he was suspended in the neon-drenched air, a dark shape against the brilliant chaos of the city. Then, he was gone.

The guards halted their advance, their programmed efficiency momentarily stalled by a variable they hadn't calculated for: total self-annihilation. One of them stepped to the edge and looked down, its helmet tilting. It stood there for a long moment, scanning, before turning back.

"Asset terminated," it stated, the synthesized voice flat and utterly unchanged. It was a report, not a eulogy. The other guard nodded, the matter already closed.

They turned their blank visors toward Ivan and Maria. "Proceed toward the vehicle."

The instructions were the same. The path was the same. Only the number of assets had changed.

Ivan offered nothing. He turned from the edge, from the spot where the human had vanished, and looked at the waiting transport. The black vehicle seemed larger now, more final.

He began to walk again, his steps measured and exact on the polished floor. He did not look back.

A thought surfaced, colder and sharper than the ones he had before, honed on the reality of the drop Vi had taken.

Is it truly so bad to go there?

.

There wasn't an exact moment Till became someone special in his eyes. It was just a collection of moments, he supposes. Enough to divide his life into two distinct eras: the time before Till was there, and the time after. The before was a monochrome blur, the after was defined by the vivid, often painful, color of Till's presence.

At first, it was just a sharp, undeniable curiosity. Till was so different from everyone else Ivan had ever encountered. He was rage, and fire, and fury, and so, so alive. His very existence seemed to command Ivan's eyes to follow him, a magnetic pull Ivan had no hope of resisting. There had never been anything so fascinating.

It started simply, then, he thought Till's eyes were pretty. Like the polished stones Unsha's wife loved to gush about and display around her neck. But they were different from those cold gems. Till's eyes were alive. They would spark with excitement and go dull and distant when he was sad. It was mesmerizing to watch.

And then, for reasons he couldn't fathom, Ivan began collecting information about him like precious secrets.

His eyes light up when he talks about something he likes.

He doesn't know that, but he hums when he is too focused on something.

He doesn't like when people mess with his hair.

He doesn't laugh often, but when he does, it's so sincere and soft and pretty that Ivan can't think of anything else.

He likes to draw. Flowers, mostly. But landscapes and Mizi, too. He never draws Ivan.

He likes to have his own space, but sometimes, he needs someone nearby and doesn't know how to ask for it, so he just orbits around you.

Till didn't touch others often, but when he did, it was something else. It wasn't gentle or delicate. However, even when it was meant to hurt, during those fights Ivan couldn't resist picking, it didn't hurt in the way Ivan expected. Even the anger in Till's touch felt strange and, in a way Ivan could never explain, almost kind.

He loves music. Loves art. Loves Mizi. Thinks Sua is scary but for some reason, really, really wants to be her friend. He likes to watch the artificial clouds in the sky. He didn't say it, but when Ivan mentioned the sea humans long forgotten talked about, his eyes went wide with wonder. He fiddles with his hair when he is nervous. He doesn't really like sweets. He hates Ivan.

And he desperately wanted Till to want to be near him. To exist in each other's orbit like Sua and Mizi did, hugging and holding hands as if it were painful to be apart for even a second. But he never asked for it. He knew he would not receive it.

At some point, it became crazy to think he had ever lived without Till's presence nearby, because that life sounded so dull, so empty. The entire thing made him wonder, in the quiet of his room, if perhaps that was the entire reason Ivan had lived up to that moment. Just to meet the boy.

Then curiosity, as feelings often do, evolved into something else. Something deeper and more terrifying. At some point, his heart seemed to start beating again, so hard and so loud he thought it would find a way to carve a path straight out of his ribcage.

The problem was: Ivan didn't know what that feeling was. He just knew he wanted to live inside Till's ribcage, right next to his heart. To make a home there, because it surely would be a warm and soothing place. Surely kinder than anything he'd ever known.

Ivan had never seen the sun, only read about it in the few scattered books thrown around the manor, but the comparison came to him instantly: Till was like the sun. Bright, beautiful, giving life to the deadest things. It hurt to look at him directly for too long, because he was also very much unattainable. He was far, far from Ivan, and if Ivan dared to touch him, he would surely turn to ashes.

And sometimes, he felt a pang of pity for the sun, to be yearned for by such an ugly creature as himself. It deserved more, he thought. So, the same way an animal might approach the reflection of a star in the water in wonder, Ivan sometimes made his shadow's hand close around Till's in the light, and smiled at the thought that at least, in this small, stolen way, he could have that.

He didn't know it yet, but love inhabits the most inconceivable of places. It had taken root in the barren soil of his heart, and it was growing, wild and desperate and beautiful, whether he wanted it to or not.

.

Ivan never thought he would ever come to like Mizi.

It wasn't that the girl had ever done anything bad to him, quite the contrary. The few times they had interacted, she had been kind and welcoming, even to someone as off-putting as himself.

The problem was, every time he looked at her, contradictions bloomed in his mind. When he saw her kindness, he realized with a sting that he wanted to be capable of that effortless warmth. When she smiled, he would instinctively compare it to his own practiced, hollow expressions and think, what a joke. Her giggles were pure and innocent, his own sounded forced and unnatural. Her hair was pretty and lustrous, his was a fake, flattened thing, weighed down by product after product the segyein applied to it.

For a while, ugly feelings festered in his chest. Till was drawn to her so naturally, so completely, that Ivan couldn't help but think she was undeserving of it. After all, she didn't even seem to want it the way he did, so why her?

He’d kept a silent, bitter score in his head–an ugliness only he would ever know. He’d scored higher than her on a test. He’d talked to Till more that day. She’d tripped and he hadn’t. Useless, insignificant things like that.

It made him feel better until he realized that mindset was exactly why no one would ever prefer him over her. He eventually stopped the internal competition because it only bred a poison that made him feel worse. He could win all the petty points he wanted but in the real contest, he would always lose.

Mizi only stopped being an enemy in his head when she started to appear human in his eyes.

It was a calm day in the garden. Till was gone, attending extra classes, and Sua was off at a promotional shoot. Ivan, with nothing to do, had found the tree he and Till sometimes sat under and leaned against it, ready to lose himself in a book about the segyein's history on the planet.

Time passed quickly, lost in the words, until he felt a presence nearby. Hope ignited in his chest, thinking it was Till, only to fade just as quickly when curious eyes, hidden behind glasses, looked at him.

“Hello, Mizi. What can I help you with?” he asked, hoping his annoyed tone didn't spill into his voice.

The girl grinned and sat beside him, her arm touching his in a way that would have made Till combust with nervousness. The thought brought a faint smile to Ivan's lips that quickly vanished when he noticed the angry, blossoming purple-red mark on Mizi’s cheek. It was unmistakably the result of an impact. He knew the shape of a fist's aftermath intimately.

He didn't pretend to care. Pretense was a waste of energy. "Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Mizi hummed, a soft, non-committal sound, and then surprised him further by letting her head rest against his shoulder. The weight was light, her hair smelling faintly of synthetic flowers–the standard-issue segyein shampoo.

"It doesn't," she said, her voice too light for the thing she was about to say. "I went through worse. Once, they tried to peel off a fish that got stuck biting my head. She took off a patch of skin and some hair with it. I bled so much."

Ivan went very still.

The confession was delivered so casually, a mundane horror story from a childhood he couldn't imagine. The image of a tiny Mizi, bleeding from a well-intentioned but brutal mistake, shattered the pristine, effortless perfection he had painted her with. He had assumed her life was a smooth path of kindness and easy acceptance, her innocence born from ignorance.

He was starting to realize that maybe, he had painted her all wrong.

"Segyein are like that," he said, the words coming out almost like a sigh. "They don't know how to handle us. No matter how much they claim to care."

She hummed again in agreement, snuggling her head a little more comfortably against him. "Someone told me something funny today," she murmured. "He said boys and girls can't be friends because they eventually just fall in love and mate. You are smart, so tell me, do you think that is true?"

He had to stop the urge to let out a derisive laugh. "That's stupid," he said instead, the words clipped and final. I would never fall for you, he didn't say, but for some reason, the thought hung in the air between them, and he had the distinct impression she had heard it anyway.

Mizi lifted her head. Her eyes, behind her glasses, were twinkling with genuine amusement and something like relief. "Right?" she said, her grin returning. "It's such a weird rule."

A cold, logical connection formed in Ivan's mind. His gaze flickered back to the bruise on her cheek, then to her earnest eyes. His voice was flat, devoid of its usual performative annoyance, leaving only a chilling curiosity. “Is the one that said that the same person that punched you?”

"Maybe."

Her smile remained through the non-admission that felt more like a confession. It was the first time he noticed how most of her smiles seemed forced, brought forth by desperation alone.

Ivan knew a fake smile when he saw one. He saw it in the mirror all the time.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he muttered, finally looking back to the forgotten page in his book.

"I know," Mizi said softly. She followed his gaze to the book, once again leaning against him and resting her head on his shoulder. "What are you reading about?"

"History. Their history on this planet. How they 'educated' the beings who lived here before.” He couldn't keep the scorn from dripping off the last word.

"Is it boring?"

“Not really, just frustrating.” The words were all from the winners' perspective. He kept wondering how much of it was warped to make them look good.

“Can you read to me then?”

Ivan glanced at her, surprised by the question. No one ever asked anything like that of him. In fact, this whole interaction had been a surprise. The kids in the garden tended to avoid him, claiming he was off-putting, and he couldn't really blame them.

“Why? You can read it by yourself later, when I give it back to the library.”

Mizi shifted, getting more comfortable against his shoulder. "I like your voice," she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's calm."

Ivan stared at her for a moment, utterly disarmed. Compliments were weapons in his world, things to be analyzed for hidden barbs. But from her, it felt like just a statement of fact. He cleared his throat, all the ugly feelings he'd harbored toward her until now finally evaporating into nothing.

"Fine," he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He found his place on the page and began to read, his voice low and even. He spoke of geological surveys and atmospheric recalibration, his tone flat as he recited the segyein's dry, self-congratulatory prose.

Ivan read for what felt like a long time, the words filling the quiet space between them. Eventually, he felt the weight on his shoulder grow heavier. Mizi’s breathing evened out into the soft, deep rhythm of sleep. Her grip on consciousness loosened, and she slid gently from his shoulder, coming to rest with her head in his lap.

A soft snore escaped her, followed by a tiny trail of drool from the corner of her mouth. Ivan stopped reading and looked down at her, utterly vulnerable and trusting in her sleep. Carefully, so carefully, he reached out and slid her glasses from her face, folding them and setting them aside on the grass. She nuzzled unconsciously into the fabric of his shirt, her cheek pressing against his stomach.

He should have felt annoyed. Trapped. He should have woken her up and left.

But he didn't.

He felt… a quiet warmth. A sense of peace. Her simple, honest words echoed in his mind. I like your voice. She had sought him out for his company. She had found comfort in his presence. She needed nothing from him but this.

And for the first time, Ivan realized that someone seeking him out didn't have to be a threat. It could just be… company. Understanding. He sat there, under the tree, one hand resting lightly on the book and the other hesitantly, almost reverently, hovering over Mizi's sleeping form.

He didn't win a point against her in some imaginary game. Instead, he felt the strange, quiet satisfaction of being needed, not as a rival or a problem, but just as Ivan.

Ivan felt, for a moment… content.

Then, she woke up with such a stupid, groggy face that it admittedly drew a rare, real laugh from him. They both parted ways after he accompanied her to the medical wing, and he left for his room.

He didn’t think anything would really change after that, except his hidden feelings for the girl. She went from being the one he was competing for to just another girl who sometimes got on his nerves because of Till. However, she didn't seem to share that sentiment.

Mizi started to jump on his back when he once lifted her as a joke (he didn’t stop to marvel at the fact she trusted him enough to know he would never let her fall). More than once in a week, she would drowsily sleep on his lap, and sometimes, in class, on his shoulder. She made her way toward him and Till (dragging a very reluctant Sua along) in the cafeteria when they went to eat.

Ivan had never had a friend.

Before Unsha’s manor, he never interacted much with other humans. They were few and far between in the places he had been, and the ones he knew were too busy surviving or being cruel to want to talk with a random kid.

At Unsha’s, it was clear play was over and it was time to work. He thought that was the consensus of all the humans there, but sometimes he would see a few of them sneakily giggling and playing with each other when no one was looking. It seemed it was only him who thought that way.

His time at the garden hadn't changed much. The kids all seemed to want to form friendships, whether to value their time despite the clear end everyone was going to face or for some other reason. They sought connections like madmen or avoided them altogether. All that to say, they all wanted friends, just not him, because he wasn't… normal. Whatever the hell that meant.

Ivan had met Till, but he wouldn’t really call what they had a friendship, because most of the time it was obvious the boy was just putting up with him. Ivan didn't like to think about it too much, because it hurt, so he didn't.

However, if, Ivan guessed, he had ever had a friend his own age, it would be like this.

.

The teacher’s voice was a low, monotonous hum, detailing the economic policies of the First Segyein Expansion. Ivan, as always, was perfectly still, his posture impeccable, his gaze fixed forward. The perfect picture of an obedient student.

His feet nudged against Till’s ankle. A gentle, testing poke. Till, who had been moments away from dozing off on his textbook, jolted slightly. He glanced sideways, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, which grew further when he saw it was Ivan.

Ivan kept his face a neutral mask, staring straight ahead at the instructor. With deliberate slowness, he hooked his foot around Till’s, applying a soft pressure.

A corner of Till’s mouth twitched. He retaliated, pressing firmly against Ivan’s, initiating a silent, stationary war of pressure. A push, a shove, a trapped foot, a subtle struggle for dominance, all contained beneath the cheap synthetic wood of the desk.

Ivan increased the pressure, pinning Till’s foot. Till, refusing to yield, twisted his own, trying to break free. The ridiculousness of the struggle, the sheer childishness of it, must have hit him. A choked snort escaped from Till’s lips. He tried to smother it, coughing into his hand, but his shoulders started to shake. Another snort, louder this time, bubbled into a full, helpless laugh that he desperately tried to stifle against his forearm.

The sound was quiet, but in the dead silence of the lecture, it was a cannon shot.

Ivan watched him, the way Till’s eyes squeezed shut, the way his entire body trembled with the effort of containing his laughter. A warm, unfamiliar feeling spread through Ivan’s chest. It was… nice. It was so nice to be the reason for that. To make Till forget the boring lesson, to pull that genuine, unguarded sound from him.

“Till.”

The instructor’s actual face was frowning directly at them. Ivan immediately stilled his feet, his expression sliding back into blank neutrality.

“Is my lesson amusing you?” The instructor asked, its voice dripping with disapproval.

Till straightened up, wiping a tear from his eye, his face flushed from laughter and now embarrassment. “No, Instructor.”

“Then perhaps you can share the joke with the class.”

A few snickers rippled through the room. Till’s flush deepened. He slumped lower in his seat, muttering a sullen “No.”

“See me after class for disciplinary review,” the instructor stated before resuming its lecture.

As the teacher’s voice started up again, Till shot a glare at Ivan. Jerk, he mouthed, though there was no real heat behind it, just the lingering embarrassment of being singled out. Ivan, the obedient kid, never got called out. He was too good at the performance.

Till tried to pay attention. He really did. For a solid five minutes, he stared at the teacher, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then his focus wavered. He picked up his eraser, rolling it between his fingers. Then his pencil, tapping it against the edge of his desk. Finally, his notebook beckoned. He flipped to a blank page and began to draw.

Ivan didn’t bother to look at the lecture anymore, either. His lesson was right beside him. He watched the concentration on Till’s face, the way his tongue sometimes poked out between his teeth, the quick, sure strokes of his pencil. And he watched, with a familiar, hollow ache, as Till’s eyes would flick up, over Ivan’s shoulder, to where Mizi sat a few rows ahead. Each glance made Till’s cheeks flush a little pinker, and he’d look back down at his paper, adding more detail to the sketch.

He was drawing her. Again.

Ivan didn’t bother to hide his stare for a while now. Till never looked back at him, anyway. So, he let his eyes trace the line of Till’s jaw, the fall of his hair over his eyes.

With a quiet sigh, Ivan turned to his own notebook. His handwriting was precise, perfect. Letters perfectly rounded and linear. He wrote a single line.

Don’t you get tired of drawing Mizi?

He nudged his notebook toward Till’s direction.

Till glanced down, annoyed at the interruption. He read the line, and his shoulders tensed. He scribbled a quick, harsh response and shoved the paper back.

No. Do you get tired of being a creep?

Till’s letters were like him. Unique. Ivan almost smiled. He wrote back.

No. Try drawing something new. A rock. A tree. He pondered for a bit, then added, Me.

The note returned a moment later.

Your face is weirder than a rock. And Mizi’s prettier than a tree.

Debatable. Trees are very pretty.

Not more than Mizi.

Ivan stared at that line for a long moment.

Maybe you should try talking to her first, for once, instead of just drawing her.

He passed the note. Till read it, his ears turning red. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and stuffed it into his pocket, refusing to look at Ivan for the rest of the class. But he also stopped drawing, while Ivan folded his arms and let his head rest on top of them, watching Till exist.

It was a familiar pastime, one that filled the hollow spaces in his chest with a bittersweet ache. The faint frown of concentration was back, but it was directed at the instructor now, not a drawing. Ivan knew it wouldn't last. Till’s mind was a restless thing, always seeking an outlet, a distraction, a spark.

He must be thinking about her again, Ivan thought. He’s replaying her smile from this morning, or the way she said his name. He’s building a fantasy where he actually talks to her and it doesn’t end in a stuttered mess.

Ivan’s own fantasies were quieter, simpler, and infinitely more pathetic. They never involved grand conversations or confessions. They were just… proximity. A hand on his arm, not pulled away from. A shared look that lasted a second too long. Till looking for him first, for once.

He studied the line of Till’s back. He memorized the way a single strand of hair fell across his forehead, a detail no one else would ever notice or care about. For Ivan, it was everything.

This is it, he mused, his head still resting on his arms. This is the sum total of what I get. The side profile. The annoyed glances. The blame when he gets in trouble because of me. He should have felt angry. Or resentful. Instead, he just felt a profound, weary tenderness. It was better than nothing. Being the source of Till’s irritation was better than being nothing.

Till shifted, sighing heavily as the lecture went on. His eyes, bright and searching, began to wander again. They skipped over Ivan without a flicker of recognition, scanning the classroom before inevitably drifting back toward Mizi.

A fresh wave of that familiar emptiness washed over Ivan. Look at me, he pleaded silently, his hands clutching his arms enough for the skin to turn white. Just once. Actually see me. I’m right here. She is not looking. I am.

But Till never did. Ivan was the constant in his periphery. He was the desk chair beside him, the wall he leaned against, present, necessary even, but utterly unseen.

The lecture eventually ended with Ivan not registering any of it. Till had to quickly leave to run from the teacher and the lecture he would eventually receive. Ivan remained seated as the classroom emptied around him, watching Till pack his things and rush out of the class.

With a sigh, he looked at the now empty desk.

He had made Till laugh today. For a few stolen seconds under a desk, he had been the center of his universe. It had to be enough. It was all he was ever going to get. It was more than he deserved.

“Ivan!” A weight settled on his back, surprising him from his thoughts. Arms looped around his shoulders from behind, and a chin came to rest on the top of his head.

“Mizi,” he said, his voice even. He carefully adjusted his posture so she wouldn’t fall, while ignoring the seething look from Sua, who stood a few feet away with her arms crossed. “Sua,” he nodded in her direction, a gesture of bare-minimum acknowledgment.

“We’re going to the next room to train for our next performance!” Mizi babbled into his hair, her voice full of excitement.

Ivan listened to the stream of words, trying to will his attention toward her excitement, instead of the feeling much like defeat growing inside his chest.

He was about to give a non-committal grunt when Sua spoke, her voice cutting through Mizi’s cheerful noise like a shard of ice, soft and almost inaudible.

“You look sad.”

Ivan went completely still. Mizi’s chin lifted off his head as she leaned to the side to peer at his face. “You’re right. Did something happen?”

He looked at Sua, truly surprised. Does he? He turned the concept over in his mind. Sad? Was that what this was? He didn’t think so. Those feelings were as familiar and constant as his own heartbeat. They were just… Ivan.

“I don’t get sad,” he said finally, his tone factual. It wasn’t a boast or a deflection. He genuinely wasn’t sure he knew what the word meant in a way that applied to him. Melancholy, yes. Longing, certainly. A deep, resonant loneliness that was his default state. But sadness felt like a simple, temporary emotion for simpler people. What he felt was a fundamental part of his architecture.

Sua’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push. She just gave a tiny, dismissive shrug. “Whatever. You just had that look.”

Mizi, ever the peacemaker, hopped off his back and grabbed his arm, pulling at it. “Well, he won’t be sad when we’re training together! Come on! Please?”

Ivan allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, Sua’s observation lingering in the air around him like a strange perfume. You look sad. He filed the comment away, to think about later, in the silence of his room. He looked at Mizi’s hopeful face and Sua’s impatient one.

“Fine,” he said, the word coming out softer than he intended, the feeling inside him being slowly but surely being replaced by something else.

He didn't know why, but he felt lucky to have them near.

.

The room was silent.

Ivan was laying on his back, the thin blanket pulled up to his chin, staring at the smooth, featureless ceiling. The lights were out, but his mind was brightly, painfully illuminated.

You look sad.

Sua’s words wouldn’t leave him. They echoed, bouncing off the walls of his skull with a persistence that was maddening. He replayed the day inside his head, frame by painful frame. He turned onto his side, the mattress creaking softly. Till’s red ears and averted eyes bloomed behind his eyelids. The familiar, hollow ache of being looked through, not at.

Is this sadness?

He thought about the heavy weight in his chest that was always there, a constant companion. He’d always just called it being. This was just what it felt like to be Ivan. It was the baseline. The emptiness that existed before, during, and after any fleeting moment of… whatever those other, sharper feelings were.

But Sua had given it a name. She had seen it on his face and called it sad.

He thought about the way his heart seemed to contract whenever he saw Till. The sharp, bitter taste at the back of his throat. He thought about the quiet afternoons with Mizi, the unexpected comfort of her head in his lap. The warmth that spread through him then was a different thing, a temporary balm that made the return to silence feel even heavier. Was the lack of that warmth also part of this… sadness?

A memory surfaced, unbidden. A much younger Ivan, in a place somewhere in Unsha’s manor. A cold floor. A closed door. The certain knowledge that no one was coming. He’d felt this same weight then. He’d just lay there, waiting for nothing. He hadn’t cried. Crying was for children who expected comfort. He had just… accepted it. The emptiness. The stillness.

It was the same feeling he had now. He had just never had a word for it.

He’d thought it was normal, that everyone carried this same void inside them, and that he was just worse at filling it than others. But the others didn’t seem to have this, not so encompassing and cruel. They felt other things. Happy things. Angry things. Simple things.

Ivan only had this. This vast, echoing nothing that occasionally got pierced by a feeling so sharp and bright it almost hurt more than the emptiness itself.

He turned onto his other side, pulling the blanket tighter. You look sad. Yes. That seemed right. The face he showed the world, the perfectly obedient mask, must have slipped for just a second. And in that second, Sua had seen the truth of him. Not anger, not annoyance, not superiority. Just a deep, endless, and utterly familiar sorrow.

Ivan wasn't broken in a new way. He had been broken in this specific way all along. He had just finally learned its name.

Yes, he concluded in the darkness, the thought final and absolute. I’ve been sad for a while now.

The admission changed nothing. The hollow was still there, a cold stone in his chest. But now, it had a name. And somehow, that was a small, strange relief.

He turned one last time to stare at the unyielding ceiling.

Maybe this is all I’ll feel for the rest of my life.

.

Ivan and Sua were alike.

That was the thought that settled in his mind as he hid himself away in one of the classrooms that kids and segyein alike rarely visited.

He often sought refuge there after the photoshoots Unsha demanded of him (he, of course, never asked). He didn't know why it left him feeling so filthy, this act of being an obedient doll. He felt it under the weight of their hungry gazes, when their cold fingers touched his hair, his face, and declared, No, not like this. We will fix you. He felt it when he opened his mouth to speak and they cut him off with, You’re pretty like this. So it’s better if you don’t speak.

He hadn't always felt this way. He didn't know what had changed since he had come to the garden. He just kept thinking, Is this the only good thing about me? This crafted appearance?

This was why he needed a day. A single day to be alone, to rebuild the fractured pieces of himself before facing Till and the others. Without it, he would surely shatter in front of them, and it would not be pretty, because nothing about him ever was.

Sua, somehow, as if she possessed a third sense for his despair, had learned to always find him in these moments. Sometimes she arrived quickly, other times, it took an hour or two. But the time didn’t really matter, after all, the important thing is that she always found him.

And she always asked the same thing, “Are you okay?”

And he always said, “Yes,” even when not even he, himself, believed it.

She would always just nod, understanding his silence was a language of its own, and sit near him, not in front, but behind or beside him, and simply exist. Sometimes she did a lesson, sometimes read a book. Sometimes she just watched the artificial day pass by the window.

This time, however, when he looked at her, he saw his own face staring back. The same empty eyes. The same face devoid of authentic emotion.

A doll.

Maybe, he analyzed, this whole time she sought him out not for his sake, but because she, too, needed company while she rebuilt herself.

“Rough day?” he managed, hugging his legs to his chest and turning his face to look at her. She sat beside him, mirroring his posture, her gaze meeting his.

“Yes,” she said back, her voice flat.

Ivan gave a slow, understanding nod, his chin resting on his knees. He didn't press, being too familiar with the shape of the silence she needed.

After a long moment, Sua spoke again, her voice low and devoid of its usual sharp edge. It was just empty. "I'm just tired of being dragged around." She wasn't looking at him anymore, her gaze fixed on the far wall. Perfect white, as always. He wondered if she felt it too–that it would be better if there was a crack there. A faint stain. Anything.

Ivan listened, the tightness in his own chest easing a fraction as he recognized the echo of his own thoughts. It wasn't the same, of course not, but the core feeling was identical. The powerlessness. The objectification.

“They never ask what I want." She finally glanced back at him, and for a fleeting second, her mask of cool indifference was gone, replaced by a raw, weary resentment. "Do they ever ask you?"

The question was so direct it stole his breath for a second. He shook his head, a minute movement. "No.”

They were both projects. Ivan, the flawed asset to be corrected and polished. Sua, the perfect doll to be displayed and manipulated. Two sides of the same dehumanizing coin.

"They touched my hair today," Ivan found himself saying, the words coming out unbidden. He rarely spoke of it. After all, he didn’t know why it bothered him so much. It was just hair, and his was ugly. It made sense they would fix it. "Said it was wrong. Again."

Sua’s lips pressed into a thin line. "They re-did my makeup three times. Said the light wasn't catching right. That I needed to look more pale."

Ivan huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “But you already look so pale?”

“I know, right?” she said, a flicker of genuine frustration in her words.

"They said I need to be softer," Ivan continued, the absurdity giving him a strange, bitter courage. He mimicked the segyein's flat, evaluating tone. "'Less angular. The angles are off-putting to the viewers.'" He gestured vaguely at his own face. "As if I can change my bone structure between takes."

Sua let out a derisive snort, a real, unvarnished sound he rarely heard from her. "They told me to be more approachable, but maintain an air of untouchable grace." She put on a sickly-sweet, vacant smile, her eyes going deliberately blank. "Like this? Is this the right mix of approachable and untouchable?"

Ivan actually chuckled, a dry, rusty sound. "My favorite is still the one who spent twenty minutes adjusting a single strand of my hair," Ivan countered, getting into the rhythm of their shared ridicule. "He said it disrupted the harmonious flow of my profile, whatever that means. He looked genuinely pained by it. I thought he might cry."

Sua smirked. "Maybe we should start a list of the most ridiculous requests they had.”

"Ivan must appear more vulnerable, but in a strong way,'" he offered, raising a finger.

"Sua must project compassionate authority. Whatever that means," she fired back, raising her own finger.

"Ivan's gaze is too intense. Can he try to look more normal?”

"Sua's smile is too precise. Can it be more... organically generated?'

Soon enough they fell into quiet giggles. The things that had made them feel filthy and powerless just minutes before were now becoming absurd jokes, their sting lessened by being shared.

"It's all so stupid," Sua said finally, the laughter fading alongside the tension in her shoulders. "Every bit of it."

"I know," Ivan agreed. The hollow feeling in his chest had been filled, for a moment, with something lighter.

For the first time since he'd hidden himself away, the urge to rebuild his facade felt less urgent. The cracks didn't seem so dangerous when someone else was sitting there, cracked right alongside him.

But then…

The door creaked open a fraction, and a head of long pink hair peeked in. “Sua? Are you in–oh! There you are!” Mizi’s face, bright and concerned, lit up the room. Her eyes immediately found Sua, and a relieved smile spread across her features. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Ivan watched the transformation happen in real time. The weary slump of Sua’s shoulders was replaced by a relaxed posture. The raw frustration in her eyes melted away, replaced by a soft, focused light. The mask wasn’t just back, it seemed to fit more easily now, summoned by the presence of the one person who made wearing it feel worthwhile.

“I lost track of time,” Sua said, her voice regaining its usual gentle tone, the one she reserved for Mizi alone. She stood up, brushing nonexistent dust from her clothes, her movements efficient and graceful once more.

“It’s okay! I figured you were hiding,” Mizi said, stepping fully into the room and grabbing Sua’s hand. “Come on.” Her gaze then flickered to Ivan, sitting in the corner. “Oh, hi Ivan! Bye, Ivan!”

“Bye,” Ivan said. The practiced, placid smile he’d been perfecting for the segyein automatically stretching across his face, a forced puzzle piece that didn't quite fit yet. The word was absorbed by the dusty, silent air.

Sua looked back just once, an unreadable look in her eyes–an apology, an acknowledgment, a farewell. And then they were gone. The door clicked shut, leaving him in the sudden, crushing silence.

Ivan and Sua were alike, but they were also impossibly, fundamentally different.

Because there was no one coming to get Ivan. No one would ever burst into his hiding place, their face alight with a worry meant only for him, and pull him back into the world. He could wait in this room until his flesh became one with the ground and nothing but bones were left. He could wait until the white walls finally developed the cracks and stains he longed for.

Till was not coming.

Ivan couldn't even blame him. He wouldn't seek out someone like himself, either.

.

It made sense, in hindsight, that Sua was the one to finally tell him the purpose of his own existence.

It had started unassuming enough. He had simply finished one of the smile training sessions and went back to his room, only to look to the side and see one of the pens he had stolen from Till.

Those sessions always left a dull, metallic ache in his jaw, and seeing Till didn't, so he figured it was the perfect moment to go give his pen back.

With his cheeks still marked by the forceful equipment that had held them in a rigid grin, he ran around the garden looking for him.

He found them near the artificial willow tree, its unnatural leaves shimmering under the false sky. Sua and Mizi were playing some sort of clapping game, their laughter ringing out, clear and effortless as Till watched them. He was leaning against the tree, his arms crossed, a small, soft smile on his face. It was a peaceful, unguarded expression, one Ivan rarely saw directed at anything but a blank page or the sky.

It was a pretty expression, but again, Till was hardly anything but pretty in Ivan’s eyes.

Ivan’s own smile, still stretched tight and aching from the training, felt grotesque in comparison. But he was training, right? He was getting better. Maybe one day his smiles could make Till look like that too.

He approached, the stolen pen clutched tightly in his hand. “Till,” he said, his voice coming out a bit too loud, too eager.

Till’s peaceful expression shattered. He turned, and the softness in his eyes was immediately replaced by a familiar wariness. “What?”

Ivan held out the pen, the plastic warm from his grip. He pushed his aching cheeks up higher, willing the smile to look genuine, to look kind. “You left this in class. I brought it back.”

He braced for the usual reaction. The accusation, the snatched pen, the hissed thief. He was ready for that familiar dance of irritation that had always passed for attention in his eyes.

But it didn’t come.

Till just looked at the pen, then at Ivan’s painfully wide smile. His brow furrowed, not in anger, but in something else. Something that looked uncomfortably like… pity.

“Why are you doing that?” Till asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Doing what? Returning your pen?”

“No.” Till’s gaze was fixed on Ivan’s mouth, on the strained curve of his lips. “That. Why are you smiling like that?”

The question was like a splash of cold water. Ivan could feel the artificial expression slipping, the muscles in his cheeks trembling with the effort to hold it. “I’m just smiling,” he said, the words feeling stupid and inadequate.

Till finally took the pen, his fingers brushing against Ivan’s for a fleeting second. “You don’t have to, you know? It looks painful,” he said simply.

“My smile is painful?” Ivan repeated, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue. What did that even mean? His smiles were things to be practiced in front of mirrors, measured and adjusted by cold metal. They were performances, of course they would be painful.

Till shrugged, looking almost embarrassed to have said it. “Yeah. You know. It doesn’t look like you.” He seemed to search for an explanation, his eyes scanning Ivan’s confused face. Then, a sudden, determined glint lit them up.

Before Ivan could process it, Till lunged.

It wasn't an attack, not really. It was a tackle, a graceless, sprawling mess of limbs that sent them both tumbling onto the soft artificial grass. Ivan grunted, the air knocked out of him, his carefully constructed composure shattered.

And then Till’s fingers found his sides.

Ivan jerked, a startled, undignified sound escaping him. “Wha–stop it!” he demanded, but his words were already breaking apart into choked gasps. He tried to squirm away, to bat Till’s hands aside, but Till was relentless, digging his fingers into the sensitive spots with a fiendish accuracy.

A strangled laugh burst from Ivan’s lips. It was an ugly sound, rough and unpracticed, nothing like the clear, melodic laughs of Mizi or the others. It was a fight for air, a physical reaction he had no control over. He twisted, trying to escape, but Till just adjusted his weight, pinning him down, a wide, triumphant grin spreading across his own face.

“There it is!” Till said, his own laughter mixing with Ivan’s desperate gasps. “See? That’s it!”

And Ivan, helpless, breathless, felt his face contort. It wasn't the smooth, upward pull of the training device. It was a crinkling around his eyes, a stretching of his mouth that felt too wide, that showed too many teeth. It was an open, vulnerable, and utterly true expression. It was ugly, messy but completely, undeniably his.

For a moment, everything else faded. The ache from the smile trainer was gone. The hollow feeling was gone. There was only the sensation of Till’s weight on him, the sound of their combined, ragged laughter, and the sight of Till’s face above his, flushed with exertion and glee. His eyes were shining, brighter than the false light above them, and Ivan’s breath caught for a completely different reason.

He looks pretty, Ivan thought, the observation hitting him with the force of a physical blow. So pretty.

“Till! Ivan! Come see the ladybug!” Mizi’s voice cut through the moment, bright and cheerful from across the garden.

The spell broke. Till’s grin softened into a smile, and he pushed himself off Ivan, scrambling to his feet. “Coming!” he called back, already turning away and moving toward the sound of her voice without a second glance.

Ivan lay on the grass, his chest heaving, the ghost of laughter and touch still tingling on his skin. He watched Till go, watched Mizi greet him with a warm smile, watched Till’s face flush a different, softer shade of pink as he looked at her.

A shadow fell over him. Sua stood there, having approached silently. She looked down at him, her expression unreadable. She took in his disheveled hair, his grass-stained uniform, and the undoubtedly stupid, dazed look that was still plastered on his face.

She nudged his side with the toe of her shoe, not hard, but enough to jolt him. “You should wipe that look off your face,” she said, her voice flat. “It’s stupid.”

He looked up at Sua, her face a mask of cool disdain, her eyes holding something sharp and knowing that saw straight through the lingering ghost of a smile, right down to the pathetic, yearning heart of him.

“What look?” He mumbled, pushing himself up on his elbows, trying to muster some semblance of his usual detached composure. It was a futile effort. He always felt raw, exposed when he talked to her.

Sua didn’t blink. “The one that says you’d let him walk all over you if it meant he’d look at you for five seconds.”

For some reason, he felt the heat rising to his cheeks, a traitorous flush of shame, because he couldn’t argue. He would do stupid, stupid things just to have Till’s gaze on him for a moment. It was pathetic, yes, but it was a sentiment he had already made peace with. He just hadn't expected it to be so clear for other people to see.

She didn’t wait for his denial. She pressed on, her voice losing none of its flat, brutal clarity. “It’s written all over you. But I guess we all look stupid when we are in love.” She shook her head, a flicker of something that wasn’t quite contempt, but something dangerously close to exasperated understanding.

Love.

The word didn’t feel like a revelation. It didn’t feel like a lightning bolt or a sudden sunrise. It felt like a key sliding into a lock he hadn’t even known was there. A quiet, devastating click deep inside his chest.

Oh.

He didn’t even know he was capable of that, but now, it just made sense.

He stared at Sua, his eyes wide, all pretense gone. He could only sit there on the grass, the truth of her words settling over him like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

It wasn’t exactly a happy realization.

“No,” he said, the word coming out stubborn, a last, desperate defense against the inevitable. He shook his head, as if he could physically dislodge the idea. “I can’t–I can’t be in love with him.”

The protest wasn't for Sua, but for his own foolish heart, the one he hadn’t even known existed until now. Because the concept was too vast, too fragile, too human for someone like him. Love was something that happened to other people. To Mizi, with her open heart and easy affection. To the couples in the segyein dramas they were sometimes shown, with their grand gestures and flowing tears.

But him? Ivan’s love surely wouldn't be like that. It would be a distorted, broken thing, just like the rest of him.

He didn't know how to love. He never knew what to do. Sua knew when he needed distance, a silent presence in a dusty room. Mizi knew when he needed the weight of her head on his shoulder, a simple, grounding touch. They understood the language of care instinctively.

Ivan just copied.

Mimicked actions he saw, hoping the emotion would follow. He picked fights because negative attention was the only kind he knew how to reliably provoke. He stored away facts about Till like treasures, but he had no idea what to do with them, how to turn them into something warm or kind. His attempts were always off, always clumsy, always missing the mark. He was a creature built for survival, for observation, for cold analysis, trying to perform a symphony he could never hear.

His love was a locked room with no key. It was wanting to give Till the universe but only knowing how to offer a stolen pen. It was wanting to be gentle but only having fists. It was a flower trying to bloom in the dark, its petals twisted and ugly and desperate.

Maybe that’s why no one ever wanted it.

It was too intense, too sharp-edged, too clumsy, too much. It demanded and consumed and didn't know how to give back in any way that made sense.

He looked up at Sua, his expression laid bare, all the raw, confused agony of it visible, for once. “It’s wrong,” he whispered, voice hollow with despair. “It doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to. It just hurts.”

Ivan didn’t try to deny it anymore, but admitted that if this crushing, terrifying, all-consuming thing was love, then he was terrible at it. And the person he was terrible at loving would never, could never, want anything to do with it.

“Sua, what do I do?”

It was the most vulnerable thing he had ever said to her, perhaps to anyone.

She watched him, her usual mask of cool indifference nowhere to be found. For a long moment, she was just a girl looking at a boy who was hurting in a way she recognized all too well. Sua saw the raw edges of his emotion, the clumsy, painful truth of it. She saw the reflection of her own carefully guarded heart, the one that beat only for Mizi with a ferocity that was just as terrifying.

She crouched down again, bringing herself to his level on the grass.

“Well, if you figure it out, be sure to tell me,” she whispered, a sad smile on her face.

.

When he went back to his room, he let himself think of another, better life, one where Till loved him, set in an impossible place, an invented room drenched in warm, afternoon light.

In this fabricated life, Till would look up from his drawing, not because Mizi had called, but because he wanted to. His eyes would find Ivan’s, and they wouldn't skitter away in annoyance. They’d crinkle at the corners with a smile that was meant for him, and only him.

“Look at this,” that Till would say, his voice warm and familiar, holding out the sketchbook. And instead of a perfect, painstaking portrait of Mizi, it would be something else. A silly, exaggerated cartoon of one of their instructors. A detailed study of Ivan’s own hand, resting on the page of a book. Something that said I see you. I think about you.

Ivan would smile back, a real, easy, unforced one, and maybe he’d say something, and Till would laugh, and the sound would fill the warm room, and it would be enough. It would be everything.

And maybe he would go near him and hug him tight, and Till would hug back, his grip firm and sure.

And maybe, in that room, that Ivan wouldn't be ugly and not enough. His love would be a beautiful, soft thing, welcomed and returned, instead of this monstrous, hungry creature that was never satisfied.

And maybe, there they would have all the time in the world and would stand together, side by side, instead of Ivan always lingering a few steps behind, forever watching a back that would never turn for him.

But he and Till weren't in a sun-drenched room. They were fish in a tank. Trapped behind unbreakable glass, their world curated and controlled, their every move observed. They swam in endless circles, performing for unseen eyes. Till swam relentlessly toward the light of Mizi, and Ivan swam in his desperate orbit, a dark, unwanted shadow.

Till would never look at him the way he did in the daydream. That room would never exist, no matter how desperately he longed for it.

It was a beautiful, perfect, and utterly excruciating lie.

.

The next time Unsha dragged him to a party, his eyes caught on a small, decorative aquarium tucked into a corner. Two small, silver fish swam inside, their world defined by glass and fake plants. He watched them, a familiar bitterness rising in his throat.

Ivan wondered if they were unhappy, if they felt the confines of their prison, or if they were simply ignorant that a vast, boundless ocean even existed beyond their tiny, trapped existence.

But then, one fish turned and drifted toward the other. They didn't just share the water, but moved in tandem, circling each other in a silent dance only known to them, making his previous thought evaporate, replaced by a new, aching realization.

Maybe they were happy. Perhaps, even if offered the entire terrifying, endless ocean, what they truly craved wasn't the freedom of infinite space, but the safety of a single, familiar presence. The profound comfort of a companion swimming steadfastly beside it, a constant in a world of glass.

They were in the tank together. Their world was small and trapped and cruel.

But they weren't swimming alone.

In the end, isn't that what everyone wants?

.

Ivan meets a human rebel at the same party.

His face was mostly obscured by a low-slung hat, but his eyes, dark and burning with a determination Ivan had never seen before, stared back, seeing right through Ivan’s own carefully constructed indifference. The contact was a brief conversation. A promise of escape.

Suddenly, the dream of the vast ocean wasn't just a dream at all. It was a plan. It had a price. It had a path.

Of course he would go.

But not alone. Never alone.

.

Of course, he went back to drag Till with him, because Ivan had never cared much about the ocean or freedom, but he knew Till did. Ached for it, even. He had always wanted more than their gilded bars and their artificial garden.

The entire opportunity felt like a miracle, because Ivan could never give him anything, but now, he could give him the world. Wasn't that perfect?

Too bad he would soon find out that Till didn't want the world.

He just wanted Mizi.

.

He found Till in his room, not asleep, but sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the blank wall as if he could project his own fantasies onto it. He was probably dreaming of some song he was itching to write, if that familiar expression meant anything.

“Till.” Ivan’s voice was low in the quiet.

The silver-haired boy turned, his expression a familiar blend of annoyance and weary tolerance that always came when he saw Ivan. By now, he had invaded Till’s room so often that he no longer even asked how. “What do you want, Ivan?”

“Come with me.”

For a terrifying second, Till just stared, his eyes searching Ivan’s face for a joke. However, whatever was in his face must have convinced him, because, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of their entire confined world, he stood up. No questions. No demands for an explanation. Just a reluctant, trusting shadow falling into step behind Ivan. A dizzying, giddy euphoria shot through Ivan’s veins. He’s following. He’s with me.

They slipped through the complex building that was the Anakt Garden with almost no problem. For the past week, he had memorized the rounds of the guards, until he had finally found one empty spot he could pass by with Till.

Ivan’s pulse spiked as they approached the first security gate, the one the rebel, Isaac, had promised would be inactivated. Ivan went through it first. A soft, green light. No blaring sirens, no flashing red. Just a hushed click as the lock disengaged. The sound was the most beautiful thing Ivan had ever heard. Till went soon after, recognition of what was happening finally settling on his face.

Soon enough then they were out, running because their lives depended on it.

The air hit them first. It was cold, and vast, and it smelled of things Ivan had only ever read about: wet earth, decaying leaves, a cleanness that scalded the lungs. And then the ground, soft, yielding, true grass under their feet.

Then, the sky.

It was an endless, black velvet expanse, and it was shattering. A meteor shower streaked across it, silent and magnificent, painting fleeting scars of brilliant light against the darkness.

Ivan’s breath caught, but not because of the sky.

It was because of Till.

He watched as Till’s reluctant slouch vanished. He saw the awe break over his face like a wave, his guarded eyes widening to take in the impossible. And then Till was running. Not away from Ivan, but into the world, his head thrown back, a laugh–raw and real and utterly unfamiliar–tearing from his throat. He spun, his arms spread wide as if to embrace the entire universe, a smile on his face that Ivan had only ever seen directed at Mizi, and even then, never this pure, this unburdened.

He was incandescent. He was the sun-drenched room from the daydream, made flesh and set free under the starlight.

Ivan stood, anchored to the spot, his own rebellion forgotten. The meteors were nothing. The freedom was nothing. The only miracle was Till, radiant and joyful, and the fact that Ivan was there to witness it. A fragile, desperate hope bloomed in his chest, sharp and sweet and painful. This, he thought, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Let me have this. Let me have him like this, just like this, for the rest of my life, and I ask for nothing else.

But, at the end of the day, Ivan was just Ivan and nice things never came easily to him.

The smile on Till’s face didn’t fade immediately, but it strained. It tightened as his spinning slowed, as his eyes, still bright with starlight, landed on the black-haired boy. The wonder in them shifted, curdled into something complicated and unreadable. The dawning realization of where he was, and more importantly, who he was with.

The hope in Ivan’s chest curdled, too.

Till stopped running as he looked at Ivan–really looked at him–and Ivan saw the calculation there. He saw the comparison being made in the stark, unforgiving clarity of the free world.

The smile was gone.

Without a word, Till turned his back. He didn’t look at the meteors. He didn’t look at the vast, open world. He just started running back the way they had come, his figure small against the immense night.

There were no words. None were needed. Ivan understood. So Ivan let him go. He had gotten awfully good at that.

Because Mizi was back there. Mizi with her long, pretty hair and her soft skin and her pretty eyes. Mizi with her warm smile, her kindness, her comfort, her safety.

And Ivan wasn’t any of that. Ivan was just Ivan.

Surely Till must have come to his senses and noticed that he wasn't much good for anything at all.

For the first time in his life Ivan finally felt what being human was like, after all, at that moment he was nothing but an enormous bleeding heart no one wanted.

Ivan finally became human and fell in love with heartbreak.

Because of that, he, too, went back.

His retreat was a silent, shameful procession of one. And as if the universe itself sought to mock him, to underscore his irrelevance, his return was met with utter indifference. The gate, which had opened for his grand rebellion, slid shut behind him with a soft, sighing click. No alarms blared. No guards came running. The corridors were as still and silent as they had been when he left. It was as if the walls themselves had absorbed the entire event, leaving no trace. An opportunity offered to the wrong boy, now neatly retracted.

He felt impossibly foolish sleeping alone in his room.

.

The next morning, he approached Till as if nothing had happened.

For a while, it was awkward. Every conversation they attempted sputtered and died within seconds. Till couldn't meet his eyes, a hot coil of guilt tightening in his stomach.

Ivan noticed, of course he did, and to that, he smiled–a sad, tired thing–because he couldn't help but find Till endearing, even like this.

He pushed the right buttons, a well-practiced dance of prodding and provoking, and soon enough they were fighting as always. The familiar rhythm of clashing words was a relief, a return to normalcy that felt like coming home.

As Till's voice rose, sharp and defensive, Ivan just watched and when the expected punch met his cheek, it hurt, and as he moved to punch Till back, Ivan barely minded the pain.

It was okay, he thought. You could tear me apart completely, and I would still come back. I am sorry for not being what you wanted but still hovering near. I just don't know anything else.

.

Sua finds him the next day, hiding away in one of the rooms he often snuck into.

“You’re not okay,” she says, approaching him and sitting next to him as they often do. It isn’t a question. Her voice is flat, factual. She seemed to notice it before even he himself did, saw the fracture spreading under the surface when he was still trying to pretend everything was normal.

Maybe that’s why Mizi loved her. Sua was perceptive, kind in a way that doesn't need to announce itself, even when she pretended she wasn't.

A bitter regret kindles in his chest. Maybe he should have given the ticket to freedom for both of them, instead. Maybe that would have been a purer act, a better use of a sacrifice. He would've made good use of it, instead of being wasted because of his foolish hopes that never amount to anything.

“Sua,” he began, and maybe it was the worry in her eyes, or the way she drew her arms around his shoulders even though she didn’t like physical touch that much, maybe it was because they were the same, sometimes, that drew the quiet admission from him, “Love is awful.”

It demands everything and gives you nothing but hurt in return. Makes you act stupid and in ways unlike yourself.

“It is,” she agrees, her voice a low murmur. “But it’s beautiful, too, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful?” He echoed, the word tasting foreign. He thought of Till’s laugh under the meteor shower, raw and real and aimed at the sky, not at him. He thought of the incandescent joy on his face, a sight so beautiful it was physically painful. He thought of the view of his back, after he turned around. “For a moment, maybe. But that’s the worst part. It’s like getting a single, perfect sip of water when you’re dying of thirst. It doesn’t save you. It just makes you realize how parched you are. It makes the thirst unbearable.”

Sua said nothing, probably knowing that language holds no cure for this. She only held him tighter.

In the quiet, surrounded by the faint scent of her, his mind drifted to love, meteor showers, soft pink hair and the thought of a fish in a tank.

The realization arrived, cold and absolute.

He had never been the other fish, swimming alongside.

He had always been the tank itself.

Unwanted, constricting, desperate to keep the fish in.

.

The next day, Ivan watches the way Sua looks at Mizi, like she’s found paradise in the midst of their own twisted, artificial hell and he realizes something–that love, in its rawest form, isn’t awful.

It’s just hard when you do it on your own, all alone.

.

A tragedy in two words: Sua dies.

Ivan rewinds the footage. He plays it again. And again. In the suffocating darkness of his room, the glow of the screen is a hellish beacon. He watches with a feverish, desperate intensity, as if his gaze alone could stitch her skin back together, could rewind time itself and place her safely backstage, as if he could force the universe to correct this one, monstrous error.

He stares until the pixels bleed into a nightmare tableau burned onto the back of his eyelids. Until Mizi’s hollow, doll-like expression is a permanent resident in his mind. Until Sua’s last, gentle smile is a brand on his heart. He watches until the battery of the device gasps its last breath and the screen goes black, leaving only his own pale, haunted reflection staring back from the void.

The world is not fair and the silence is not kind.

His own mind, the cruelest chamber of all, torments him with a sad amount of unwanted memories he really doesn’t want to think about.

Like the fact that, if he goes to the empty room again, she won’t be there to hold his hand or lean against him. She will not be there to share the weight of a bad day.

Like how their last conversation wasn’t really a conversation at all, just a few words, barely enough to fill the space between them.

Like how he spent more time resenting her for loving Mizi than actually trying to know her.

Like how he never even told her “good luck” before she stepped onto that stage, the one she would never return from.

Sua didn’t deserve to die.

The thought is a siren, blaring inside his skull, demanding action where none exists. He cannot rewind the tape. But there is one thing, one person, who is a living testament to the loss. The other half of the tragedy.

Mizi.

The compulsion is physical, a pull in his chest that drags him from out of his room. His footsteps are silent on the polished floor, a ghost moving toward another ghost.

Her door is unlocked and he pushes it open. The room is dark, but a sliver of light from the hall cuts across the floor and onto the bed.

She is there. A small, still shape beneath the thin blanket, facing the wall. She doesn’t stir at the sound of his entrance. She doesn’t acknowledge him at all. She is a statue, a vessel emptied of everything that made her Mizi, leaving behind only the outline of a girl.

The world is uncaring, and as much as Ivan wished to be the same, he is not.

He closes the door softly, plunging the room back into near-darkness, and moves toward her, saying nothing because he knows words would be nothing but useless now. He simply sinks to the floor beside her bed, his back against the frame, and rests his head on the mattress near her shoulder. He doesn't touch her, but he is there.

It’s not enough but it’s surely better than nothing.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, listening to the shallow, almost imperceptible sound of her breathing. Time has lost all meaning. There is only before, and after.

Then, another sound. The gentle creak of the door opening wider. A silhouette fills the doorway, hesitant.

Till.

His eyes, wide and shadowed with his own grief and confusion, adjust to the dim light. He sees them: Mizi, broken on the bed, and Ivan, broken on the floor, a perfect, devastating picture of heartbreak.

He doesn’t speak either, just moves, quiet and sure, and sits on the floor on the other side of the bed, mirroring Ivan.

The world is cruel, a monstrously efficient machine that grinds beautiful things into dust, but at least, they are together.

Ivan had long since lost feeling in his legs, when, surprisingly, Mizi broke the silence.

“Life is too long.” Too long without her. The unspoken suffix to the sentence was heard by all of them.

“I know.” He let out a slow, shuddering breath. “I think life is too long, too.”

From above him, Ivan heard a hitched, broken breath. Then another. A small, cold shift on the mattress, and the faintest pressure against the crown of his head. Mizi had moved. Her hand, perhaps, had uncurled. A strand of her hair had fallen against his skin. It was the barest point of contact, a ghost of a touch, but it had been more than she had offered since then.

He looked back at Till, neither knowing what to do.

Ivan could only hope things would get better.

.

Mizi goes missing not long after.

Hope sure is a wretched, ugly, nonsensical thing.

.

The white clothes itched and the way they’d styled his hair felt wrong. A bitter amusement curled within Ivan. It was fitting, he supposed, to die exactly as he had lived: performing a part he never wanted.

His mind was a numb void as he was ushered toward the platform, save for one sharp, aching regret: he wished he could have seen Till just one more time.

Eventually the light of the stage found him as the platform he was standing on carried him upward. There, right beside him, was Till. The sight was a punch to his gut, stealing what little breath he had left. And in that instant, the numbness shattered, replaced by a frantic, desperate torrent of hope.

Hoped he would be alive, after this.

Hoped he would be alright without him near. That he would stop biting the skin around his nails when nervous.

Hoped that he would manage to escape this aquarium.

Hoped that he would eat, sleep and be well.

Hoped that he would find Mizi somewhere kinder.

Hoped that he would remember him, sometimes.

Hoped that he wouldn't hate him the way Ivan hated himself for putting him through this.

Hoped he would never listen to the songs he wrote and discover how vile and selfish he truly is.

Hoped that he would live a fulfilling life.

He hoped, he hoped and hoped, a silent litany as he was drawn toward Till, as his hands came up not to harm, but to hold. He meant to squeeze his neck softly, a final, futile gesture of resistance. Not to hurt. Never to hurt.

But his body and his heart were nasty, needy things, treacherous and weak, so things never went as planned, because he kissed Till, even though he never planned to.

He kissed him and it tasted like goodbye. He put his hands into his neck and it felt like I’m sorry. He started to bleed out and it felt like I love you.

Strangely, as the shock of the first bullet bloomed into searing pain, his mind flashed to Sua. She had possessed a monumental courage he could never emulate, meeting the end with a smile. He wished he could be more like her, for Till’s sake.

So he tried.

He tried to muster a smile, something brave and warm, a final gift to sear into Till’s memory. He wanted to be remembered like he remembered the girl: strong, courageous, warm and kind. But his smiles had always been awkward, broken things, and this one was no different. Why would death change that? He could feel how wobbly and strained it was, and a fresh wave of regret washed over him. I’m sorry, he thought, that this broken, disgusting thing is the last thing I can offer you.

He felt the blood, warm and thick, welling past his lips.

Drop, drop.

Death was something that followed them like a shadow. It was everywhere. When you made a wrong decision. When you said the wrong thing. When you did not bring good results. It was there, looming. So he naturally thought about it often.

But It was still scary.

When he hit the cold pavement, it hurt. When the rain hit his face, it was cold. When he started to lose consciousness, he was terrified. Still, as his eyes started to close, he thought about the man in front of him, just like he did all his life.

In his final moments, he sees teal hair and an expression he had never seen before directed at him.

There you are, he thought, a final, quiet peace settling over him. And immediately after, the last coherent thought formed, a perfect, painful echo of his life’s greatest failure: I wish I had told you how I felt.

But unfortunately for Ivan, there had never been enough courage for love.

There was no courage.

.

When he wakes up, there is no pain and nothing hurts.

He is back in the garden. A soft, golden light envelops him, dappling through the leaves of the great tree he rests beneath. The air is warm. Ahead, the soft, melodic giggles of Mizi and Sua weave together, a perfect, harmonious sound. Beside him, the familiar, soothing scratch of Till’s pencil on paper provides a gentle rhythm to the peace.

For some reason, he just knows he is dying.

He turns his head. Till is there, sitting against the same tree, a sketchbook balanced on his knees. The sunlight catches the edges of his hair, setting it alight.

“Are you here to keep me company?” Ivan asks, a profound warmth filling his chest, as it always does in Till’s presence. He quite likes the sound of that. Dying by Till’s side, in warmth and safety.

“Yup,” the boy says, his tongue peeking out in concentration at whatever he is drawing. He doesn’t look up. “Unfortunately, I can’t save you.”

The statement is simple, accepting. Ivan nods, understanding. “I’m dying on the stage.”

“Yes.”

A memory, faint and blurred at the edges, surfaces. A moment of impulse, of desperate, misplaced feeling. “I’m sorry for kissing you. I didn’t mean to do that.” The apology feels important, here at the end.

Till’s pencil stills for a moment. He glances at Ivan, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice softer than the light around them. “Soon it won’t matter anyway.”

“Oh,” Ivan says, intelligently. He shifts, moving a little closer to Till on the soft grass, until their shoulders are touching. “Can you talk to me, then? At least until…?”

Till looks at him fully then, and offers a small, quiet smile. It’s a rare sight, one that makes the golden light seem a little brighter. “Sure.”

Ivan thinks for a moment, wanting to grasp onto something normal, something mundane to assure this surreal, gentle end. He asks the simplest question he can think of.

“How was your day?”

Till lets out a soft huff, almost a laugh, and looks back down at his sketchbook. His pencil begins to move again. “It was okay,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “The light was good for drawing. Mizi and Sua tried to braid flowers into my hair. It was annoying.” He says it without any real heat, a fond annoyance. “I finished the drawing I was working on. The one filled with mountains."

“Can I see it?” Ivan asks, leaning his head against Till’s shoulder to peek at the sketchbook.

Till angles the book toward him. The page is filled not with the expected landscape, but with a detailed, gentle rendering of Ivan himself, asleep under this very tree, his features peaceful in a way they never are in waking life.

Ivan’s breath catches. He never thought he looked that beautiful once in his life. It would be nice to think TIll sees him like that.

“It’s for you,” Till says simply, his ear tingeing a faint pink.

And Ivan, who has built his entire existence on a foundation of want and lack, who has learned to equate attention with conflict and affection with transaction, feels something break.

A single, hot tear escapes, tracing a path down his cheek before he can even think to stop it. Then another. He doesn't sob, the silence of the garden is too sacred to break. He just cries, soundlessly, the tears falling onto the grass below. He cries for the boy in the drawing, who got to be peaceful and loved, if only on paper. He cries because Till, who is all sharp corners and defiant silence, made this for him. He cries because this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him, and it is happening as he is leaving the world behind.

He brings a hand up, roughly wiping at his face, embarrassed by the display but unable to stem the quiet flow.

The giggles of Mizi and Sua seem to fade into a pleasant hum in the background. The golden light begins to soften further, deepening into a warm, rosy twilight. Ivan feels the edges of his consciousness start to gently fray, not unpleasantly, like a dream beginning to dissolve upon waking.

He focuses on the weight of Till’s shoulder against his, the sound of his breathing, the lingering image of the drawing.

“Thank you,” Ivan whispers, his own voice growing faint. “For staying.”

Till’s shoulder shifts in a slight shrug, but he doesn’t pull away. “Nowhere else to be,” he replies, and his voice is the last clear thing Ivan hears as the garden gently dims into a final, comforting embrace.

.

Then a breath. A heartbeat.

A miracle in two words: Ivan lives.

Chapter Text

They were laughing, knees deep in the ‘snow’. It was cold and bright. Till’s cheeks were flushed with a joy so rare it felt precious as he threw a snowball, and it exploded against Ivan’s shoulder in a shower of white dust. In response, Ivan tackled him, and they tumbled into the floor, breathless, the world reduced to this: the crunch of fake snow, the heat of Till’s body, and the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and alive in his ears.

Ivan thought he wouldn’t mind staying there forever.

.

A metallic taste flooded his mouth. Blood, he thought, but the thought was slippery, lost in the middle of the agonizing pain.

Everything hurt and there was red everywhere. His clothes, his hands, his legs and it hurthurthurthurthurt.

.

Mizi’s hands were gentle, her fingers brushing his hair as she settled a crown of woven red flowers on his head. “There,” she whispered, her smile the most genuine he had ever seen directed at him, “now you look like a prince.”

As he cradled the crown in his hands, he should’ve asked her what she saw in him. Instead, he just picked it and kept it safe in his room, growing strangely upset every time he saw the flowers wilting.

.

The world fractured into sensation. Cold hands on his skin. The sharp, clinical smell of medicine. A voice, distorted and panicked, shouting numbers he couldn’t comprehend. He screamed when something cold and sharp pierced the skin of his arm, a syringe delivering a fire that raced through his veins. He screamed and screamed and screamed–

.

Ivan called Sua a hypocrite.

Despite the amusement that filled him at the moment, born from the fact he was not alone in being twisted and vile, he regretted it once he saw her face crumble.

He wished that hadn’t been the last thing he said to her.

He should've been kinder.

.

He saw a bunch of forms around him, speaking in clipped, urgent tones. The words were a jumble of noise, syllables without meaning. A machine beeped a frantic, erratic rhythm that matched the wild thumping in his own chest. A mask was pressed over his nose and mouth, and cool air flooded his lungs. They left and he was left alone with only the sound of his own ragged breathing.

It’s much too loud, he thought, before passing out.

.

He was in class, a moment stuck in time of simpler times, or as simple as they could get for humans like them. Their teacher handed out a completely white page to every single student there. Draw whatever you want to draw, she said, and Ivan stared at it.

The page remained blank until class was over.

.

It hurt.

Stop.

Help me.

.

Till was smiling at him, a real, unguarded smile that reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. Ivan wished he could touch it. They were sitting on the floor and Till reached out, his fingers brushing Ivan’s wrist, the brief contact being so, so warm. Ivan wondered how Till didn’t hear his own heart beating, because it was so loud, it was ringing in his ears. It was pathetic, really, the way he noticed how much love oozed from him, now that he knew what that was.

Till looked at him strangely, and Ivan wished he could just cross the distance, fuse them together and keep repeating, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, stay, stay, stay–

.

The morning that greeted Ivan when he first woke up from trying to actively die, was quiet and familiar. A sky who never once saw what light greeted him from the window as he slightly turned his face around to analyze his surroundings. It was the same he’d seen a thousand times before.

It was like nothing ever happened. As he never left.

He blinked, trying to make sense of it all through his muddled brain. It was a surreal experience to wake up when you thought you wouldn't anymore, his mind not being able to follow the situation quite yet.

Ivan’s mind, still slow from whatever they were giving him or, perhaps, still trying to grasp reality, had not yet realized the important things, so he focused on the unimportant ones. The first thing he noticed was the sky, devoid of any color. He looked at it for a moment, then moved to stare at the ceiling, perfectly gray.

Awareness came to him slowly, in a way that was almost tranquil, like a gentle hand. He closed his eyes a few times, then opened them again, unsure how many minutes had passed. He kept zoning out a few times, staring at the ceiling, then at the window, then at the wall, and repeating the cycle.

Suddenly, it struck him his throat felt incredibly dry, as if he hadn't drunk anything in a long time. The urge to get up and satiate his thirst somehow, made him make the mistake of moving a little to touch his throat. It was a small thing, just an attempt to lift a hand to his neck, but it was a mistake of catastrophic proportions.

A white-hot spike of pure agony immediately drove down from his collarbone, exploding through his entire torso. His vision flashed blinding white, then dissolved into static as every nerve ending below his neck screamed in unison, a symphony of fire as if his insides had been set ablaze. The breath seized in his lungs, not as air, but as desperate gasps to try to mute the pain.

He didn't know how long he lay there, paralyzed, his eyes squeezed shut as if that would stop the agony by itself. When he finally managed to open them, the room swam in a nauseating haze. Ivan was infinitely, terribly awake now, every sense sharpened by pain. He tried to breathe, but each shallow inhalation was a ragged fight, a stabbing pressure deep in his chest that made him wheeze and fear attempting another one. He felt a trickle of sweat roll from his temple down his neck, a tiny, cold insect tracing a path through the inferno of his skin, but he was powerless to wipe it away.

A low groan escaped him, the sound tearing from his raw throat and sending fresh tremors of misery through his body, making him bite his own mouth, drawing blood. Fearfully, he took one pained breath and then another, shallow gasps being all his lungs could offer, trying to anchor himself on anything to focus and understand why it felt like his ribcage had been splintered and hastily stitched back together and why he was back at the manor.

He kept drawing those pained breaths, each one a small, painful effort. It was in the rhythm of this suffering that he became aware of another sound, a sound that had been there all along, woven between his own ragged gasps: a steady, electronic beep… beep… beep….

His hazy gaze drifted down his own body, a journey that required moving only his eyes. There, against the pale skin of his left arm, was a small, clear sensor attached by a wire that snaked away to a machine standing sentinel by the bed. The beeping quickened slightly as he noticed it, a fluttering echo of his own increasing panic.

What happened?

With sheer will alone, Ivan ignored the screaming warnings of his nerves and tried to push himself up on his elbows. The movement tore through his torso like a lightning strike, a white-hot rending that stole his breath and vision. A choked gasp was all he could manage before his strength vanished, and he collapsed back onto the pillow, the impact sending another shockwave of agony that seemed to crack his skull open from the inside. The beeping from the machine turning a more frantic, high-pitched whine.

Through the blinding pain, a single, lucid thought surfaced, clear and desperate, amidst the memory of rain in his ears and the stench of blood and the cold, cold feeling of pavement as he had hit the ground.

Oh, I need to see Till.

That was his last conscious thought before the pain swelled into a tidal wave, pulling him down into a merciful, silent blackness.

.

The next time awareness returned, it wasn’t as violent, but slow, like surfacing from deep, still waters. The searing pain that had been present before was now gone, replaced by a heavy, distant throbbing, as if his injuries were happening to someone else, in another room. Everything felt muted, like he was in dreamland. The gray light from the window had no sharp edges. The sound of the machinery was a soft, rhythmic pulse, no longer a frantic alarm. He felt swaddled in cotton wool, floating in a warm, vague haze. His body was an immobile, weightless log, and his mind, adrift, could form no urgent thoughts.

Time bled together in that muffled state, as, finally, little by little, the heavy throbbing in his chest began to sharpen, whatever they put in his system slowly losing their battle. Unfortunately, as the physical sensation grew clearer, so did his mind. The cotton-wool haze receded, allowing fractured thoughts to begin cohering.

Don’t panic. Think, he thought, the words forming inside his head with immense effort, as he lay there listening to the sound of his loud heartbeat in his ears and his frantic breath.

He remembered... a choice. He was going to the final round. Right.

Then, it crashed into him: Till's face, eyes wide with a terror that was not for himself. The deafening silence after the shot, being muffled only by the rain. The sensation of the floor rushing up to meet him and the awful, awful noise of his body falling into it, and then... then the unimaginable pain, a white-hot universe of it, consuming everything.

He had gone against Till, then. He was supposed to die there. It was the plan. But for some reason, he had woken up there, in Unsha's manor.

A torrent of questions flooded his fragile consciousness. I wasn't meant to survive. Where is Till? What happened after I fell? Did they take him? Is he–?

He started to breathe more quickly, barely minding the pain coming, too busy going deep into a spiral of awful thoughts, dread a cold vise now tightening around his heart. The thought of Till alone, hurt, or worse, was too much.

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, he chanted silently, a desperate chorus against the rising tide of fear.

The machine at his side, which had been a soft, steady noise until now, suddenly escalated into an incessant, shrill beeping, a mocking, electronic echo of his own frantic heartbeat.

Don't panic. Till, please be alright. Don't panic. Till, please be alright. Please, please be alright.

Ivan squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a ragged breath into his protesting lungs. He focused on the coolness of the sheets against his skin, on the faint taste of blood still in his mouth from where he'd bitten it earlier. He had to calm down. Falling apart would help no one. Least of all Till.

The calm he was trying to force upon his body did not extend to his mind, no matter how much he tried to. It raced down dark paths, each one a dead end as he tried to piece together what could have happened after he was shot, but his memory ended with the impact and Till’s horrified face (he will remember that expression for rest of his life, what did he do–).

The blank space that followed was a chasm of terrifying possibilities.

What if I am dead? A rational thought surfaced, stark and simple. This gray room, this muted existence, this disembodied pain–perhaps it was not a hospital but a purgatory of his own making. The idea was almost a comfort, but he also knew it was only wishful thinking. Ivan had been to the medical wing one too many times, and this one was exactly like it.

What if I can never see him again?

No, I was supposed to be the only one who died there.

That was the entire point. His survival wasn't a miracle but a catastrophic failure, if it meant Till was still in danger. It would be as his last act in his useless life had been rendered meaningless.

Lying there, trapped in the wreckage of a body he was never meant to inhabit again, Ivan did not mourn his pain but the death he was denied.

He didn’t want to wake up.

A profound exhaustion settled deep into his bones, heavier than any sedation. He had fought so hard for so long, what happened was supposed to put a final, singular dot in his story. To be forced to gear up and face the consequences of his failed plan, to wonder if Till was suffering because of his survival… the sheer effort of it was simply too much.

.

Unsurprisingly, things remained the same, as they always did in that manor. It was the same unsuspecting quiet, as if any sort of noise would disrupt the fragile hierarchy there, the same white and grey walls, the same workers and inhabitants, walking like corpses with their heads down.

A few veterinarians appeared not long after Ivan properly woke up and checked his vitals. He knew better than to ask what happened, why he was there, or why Unsha kept him. The staff there had one purpose: to patch him up so he could regain his strength, that's all. Answering questions was never part of the plan, so Ivan knew better than to try to prod for information.

His time passed with a painful, grinding slowness. There was nothing to distract him from the whirlpool of his own thoughts except for sleep and the occasional physiotherapy they put him through. Apparently, he had been sleeping for a while. How long? He still didn't know.

Ivan’s days passed with a single-minded focus: to force his body to remember its strength and heal as quickly as possible. Ivan didn't know if Unsha had planned this, if the silence was a deliberate goad to make him push himself to the brink just for a chance to demand answers, but he would put nothing past the segyein. They were not known for being kind.

The only moment that it stuck with him as odd, was the first time they took him out to bathe.

He knew his chest and his back were bound to have some scars from the ‘incident’ (as they liked to call it), but even so, he couldn't help but be surprised at how much of a mess he really was. Intellectual knowledge did nothing to prepare him for the reality.

As he stood before his reflection on the water, the aide waiting patiently right outside, he finally saw the full extent of the damage.

A brutal furrow carved a path from the side of his stomach through to his back, right down the middle. Another one punctured the top of his left arm, an entry and exit wound telling a silent story of a shot from behind. But the last one… the last one was probably the one that finally took him out for good. It was right in the center of his stomach, just below his ribs, a puckered, angry sunburst of tissue.

His first thought was a distant, almost polite, Oh, I look hideous. It was followed immediately by a colder, more analytical assessment: They really tried their best to not hit any vital parts. The precision was almost respectful. A professional job by professionals who wanted him alive, but just barely.

Ivan, entranced, found himself tracing the raised topography of his own skin, a strange gratitude washing over him. He was glad, in a twisted way, that he had managed to stay on his feet until that final, decisive shot. If he had gone down earlier from one of the others, Till might have lost.

The aide cleared its throat, pulling him from his morbid reverie. But as he turned away from the mirror, the image of his ruined torso stayed with him. Ivan couldn’t help but ponder about Unsha’s plans. If they still tried to keep him as a model, it would be far more difficult now that his skin was a ruined canvas. As for his voice, he could sing for short bursts, but he doubted he had enough strength left for a full stage performance again.

He was damaged goods. There was nothing good about that.

After that monumental moment, In the days that followed, the scars became a secret landscape his fingers could not stop exploring, maybe out of boredom or something deeper he couldn’t really be bothered to figure out.

He used to do that with Till’s wounds, sometimes, though they rarely scarred for long, Urak knew better than to inflict permanent damage to him. But even then, his fascination had been different, not born from such an ugly pace. He liked to touch Till's skin and see the blood overflow as proof that he was alive, and even more, proof he was still resisting their miserable life. Till never seemed bothered by those wounds, so Ivan soon learned he shouldn't either, opting, instead, to marvel at them.

However, to himself, his glare is not as kind. Sometimes, absentmindedly, he would find his hand creeping beneath his shirt to probe at the rigid ridge along his spine. The touch was never gentle, but a clinical press, testing confirming the reality of the damage, almost to say, there it is.

Other times, in the quiet solitude of the room he was staying, his fingertips would trace the rough, starburst pattern on his abdomen. The skin there was numb in some spots, hypersensitive in others. Pressing down on the center of the sunburst sent a dull, deep ache radiating through his core–a permanent reminder of the shot that had stolen the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs. He would press until his breath hitched, a strange form of penance for surviving.

The wound on his arm was the easiest to forget, until he reached for something and the pull of scar tissue sent a sharp, binding twinge through his muscle. It was in these small, daily failures–the slight hesitation, the suppressed wince–that the truth was reinforced. He was no longer whole. He was held together by sutures and stubbornness, and his hands would constantly, compulsively, take inventory of the loss, forever.

He hated those scars, yes, but he never resented them. Not when it meant Till was alive because of it. Ivan couldn't call it beautiful, but he felt no regret towards them either. In his book, that was as good as it gets.

.

He, who had never known a single moment of true rest inside the manor, had suddenly been drowning in time, his injured body preventing him from the routines that had once structured his days. They had brought him books, sometimes, but the words had slithered off the page, unable to hold his fractured attention. He had once tried, tentatively, to ask the most empathetic-looking veterinarian about the world outside–a casual, hollow question. They had simply looked through him, offering a sterile smile and no answer. Knowing everything was relayed directly to Unsha, Ivan hadn't tried again, knowing curiosity was a luxury he could no longer afford as it looked too much like defiance.

So, with nothing but the four walls and the silence in his head, his mind had begun to wander, unbidden, to the only place that had seemed to matter, these days: Anakt Garden. He had thought of Mizi, of Sua, of artificial scenery, of rounds and stages and performances. And, of course, intertwined with every single memory, like a vine choking a tree, was Till.

Ivan still didn’t know if Till was alive.

The not-knowing had been a constant, low hum of dread beneath his thoughts, always there, either they were good or bad.

In a moment of stark clarity, he had realized he was too afraid to know the truth. If Till wasn't, then there would have been no reason for him to endure the physiotherapy, to swallow the food, or to lie in that cold bed. So he had forced his mind away from it. He had focused only on the chance, the fragile, desperate chance, that Till was out there, breathing.

The other option had hurt too much to even consider for long.

So, he had passed his days as if Till had never left. He would look at his food and think that Till would have hated it. He would watch the sky change colors and imagine the other boy drawing it with a spark in his eyes. When the workers prodded and moved him, he had to suppress the urge to laugh, thinking about how Till would have thrown a fit, if he was in his shoes.

Ivan missed him. Terribly so.

As an attempt to ease the pain that came when thinking about the boy, he had tried to rationalize it all. This was bound to happen, he told himself. There is no reality he wouldn’t be left behind. One way or another, Till was destined to leave and disappear, the world continuing its indifferent turn. It was a simple, tragic equation, always giving the same result.

But the logic, cold and flawless as it was, hadn't made the bed any less cold. It didn't fill the silence. It didn't change the simple truth that settled deep into his bones. It didn’t make the hurt stop when he realized he could no longer just follow the boy around, talk to him, make fun of him, or rest his head on his shoulder.

He often found himself missing the times they were younger the most.

Ivan had always been used to easily receiving attention from others, good or bad, but none had felt as potent as having Till’s eyes on him. It was infuriating, especially because Till never seemed to want to give him any of it. It had always made Ivan want to punch him, if only it meant he would be looked at for five minutes. And he had done that, more than a couple of times, but somehow it had only ever felt worse.

And now, in the silence of his room, with nowhere else to run and no way to see Till again, he had looked back to all the fights and the arguments and the sarcastic comments and the stolen moments, and thought, Oh. I just wanted him to stay.

But nothing had really changed with the realization.

Till was somewhere out there, hopefully happier and freer without Ivan by his side, and Ivan still needed to heal, he still needed to gather to others' whims, and he still had to smile without meaning to. If anything, he could sleep a little longer these days, because he didn’t have to run away and break into the boys' room just to get a little bit of attention. He didn't have to worry about the possibility of someone cursing at him or looking at him with disapproval. He didn't have to worry at all.

So he didn’t worry and the bed continued a bit too cold for his liking.

It went like that for a long, long time.

.

The hallway seemed to screech infinitely as they led him to Unsha’s office.

His legs were wobbly and unstable, though he couldn’t say if it was because of the nerves suddenly attacking him or because of his still-weak constitution. Going to his office had always made him feel like this, as if a single mistake there would end his entire life. Ivan had thought, after all the years gone by, that this sensation would pass, but it seemed he had been wrong. His body still tensed as if it was ready to flee at any moment.

They reached the enormous door soon enough, as Ivan had been lost debating whether he wanted to reach it quicker or slower. He looked up at it, the two segyein obediently standing at each side of the door pointedly not looking at him, and couldn’t help but think it looked menacing.

He didn’t know what to expect there.

Oh well, he thought as he finally pushed it open with more force than he could exactly manage in his state, I was meant to be dead anyway. Whatever comes, it comes, I suppose.

The sight that greeted him was the same as many times before. It was eerie how nothing in that manor ever, ever changed, as if it were stuck in time.

Unsha was there, sitting in his chair, drinking some kind of unknown substance, all glory and strength, as if nothing in this world could possibly affect someone with so much influence. His wife, surprisingly, was there too (Ivan could count on his fingers how many times he had seen her there), and that made his heartbeat quicken.

As Ivan made his way forward, pointedly trying to pretend his legs were working properly and breathing didn’t hurt, he wondered how it felt to be immune to everything, like them. He reached the front of the desk and pointedly looked at the floor, the perfect picture of shame, although he felt nothing of the sort.

Enough silence passed for Ivan to start counting his heartbeat–one, two–before Unsha finally spoke, the familiar odd tone being translated in his ear.

“Ivan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are your wounds faring?”

That… was not the question he expected.

The veterinarians had said his recovery was going smoothly, but he might never be able to sing again, nor do extreme exercise. The damage was too deep. He might never be able to use his left arm as he had before.

He said none of it.

“It’s going smoothly, thank you for asking.”

He dared a fleeting glance upward, abandoning the charade of a bowed head–it had gained him nothing but the ache in his neck. Unsha regarded him with an air of profound boredom, the liquid in his cup swirling in a lazy vortex that was more captivating to him than Ivan’s existence. But it was his wife’s face that truly stilled the air in his lungs.

The disappointment he had expected was there, but it was a cold, settled thing, devoid of the fiery anger that might have suggested she still cared enough to be furious. She was disappointed; of course she was. But truly, her face… He could tell she didn’t care about him anymore. He could see in her eyes alone that she had given up. Ivan recognized that look, a hollow echo of the one he’d received time and again in his earliest days, each time he was deemed imperfect and returned to the store.

Ivan looked back down again, put his arms behind his back, and clenched his fists.

He had always prided himself on finding a pattern in what they wanted, even if they sometimes felt impossible to predict. It had become his specialty, figuring out their mood and shaping his answers to what they wanted to hear. Now, he didn’t know on what ground they stood. It felt shaky at best, and whatever he would do seemed to be enough to likely crumble everything down to nothing.

Unsha took a slow, deliberate sip from his cup, the silence stretching. “When do you think you will be able to resume your duties, then?”

Ivan kept his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the floor tiles. “I don’t know.”

Not faltering in the slightest by the lackluster answer, Unsha prodded with another question, then another, all circling the true heart of the matter without ever touching it.

Finally, a sharp intake of breath cut through the meaningless exchange.

"I can't do this anymore."

The words, from Unsha's wife, fell into the room and both of them remained quiet. Unsha, although a businessman at heart, prided himself on listening to his wife's wants as if they were law. Ivan already knew that, so he knew his fate was in her hands now.

"Where did we go wrong? We provided everything. Your sponsors. Clothes, food, water."

“Dear, it happens. Humans are unpredictable beings. One step wrong can crumble it all.” Her husband said, tone disappointed, if not a little betrayed.

“But he was perfect!” she cried. “How come we did not notice the cracks? It only makes sense that it was a mistake on our part.”

Ivan’s fists clenched tighter behind his back, his nails biting half-moons into his palms, as the argument erupted around him. What was he supposed to do if he was something they had done wrong? A flawed product? The voices blurred into a dissonant hum as he pondered.

This was bound to happen. The realization was a cold, settling weight in his gut, Till in the equation or not. No, no, no. I already knew I was different. He thought about Sua and her kindness, although they were similar. He thought about Mizi and her practiced smiles, but how she could still find genuine joy in life. He thought about Till, who never, ever stopped trying to regain his freedom, even if his punishments grew crueler by the day. Not everyone turns out like me, even if they grow up like this. The cracks were always there. I've been like this for a while.

“Ivan,” Unsha began. “We gave you a name, did we not?”

“Yes.”

“And education.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Food, shelter. Fame.”

“I’m immeasurably thankful for that, sir.”

“Then, where did we go wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong.” The words felt like rot on his tongue, but they were true. He was alive thanks to them, wasn't he?

Unsha’s eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with something else. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a slightly wounded tone. "Ivan. Do you remember the day we chose you? You were so small. All the humans at that age either cry or demand attention. But you? You just watched. You had these quiet, intelligent eyes. I told my wife, 'That one. He sees the world differently. He will understand the opportunity we are giving him.' We saw potential where others saw a liability. We invested not just our money, but hope in you."

"Every lesson, every meal, every garment was a step toward building you into the potential you were meant to show. And you… you threw it all away. For what?"

"I'm sorry," Ivan whispered, and was surprised to find it came out sincere. For some unknown reason, a part of him felt guilty. "I am so deeply sorry. Please, forgive my failure."

His wife finally spoke again, her voice icy and sharp, none of the warmth he had grown used to, back when he was shaped to be her favorite pet. "Your apologies mean nothing if we don't understand. Explain why. Why did you do it? For a lesser pet, no less. You have brought shame upon us. The gossip columns are tearing us apart. No one will want you back on the stage, not with those scars, not with this… disgrace attached to your name."

She took a step closer, her perfume suddenly cloying. "Our sponsors are gone, Ivan. Every last one. They don't want to associate with someone like you. Give me a single reason why he should keep a disgrace like you around."

He felt so much all of a sudden that it made him dizzy. He did not know where to look nor what to say. There was no answer that would fit the pattern, no lie that could mend this. Amidst the growing panic, he tried to calm himself down.

Guess no one wants a weirdo like you, huh? The voice that whispered in his ear was high and clear, undeniably Sua mocking him with an ironic smile. Guess a lot of currency went down the drain, she added, with that tone that said she found something amusing but could not laugh, unless she wanted to receive a lecture.

Suddenly, the urge to laugh bubbled in his throat, so sudden and violent he had to clench his jaw shut to keep it in. He felt light-headed.

"Talk. Now." Unsha’s command was a whip-crack, devoid of its earlier false tenderness.

Ivan noticed that this was his last chance. The final opportunity to shape himself back into an asset they wanted, to find the right combination of words that would make him useful again. There had to be hope. He still had to have some value, if they had willingly brought him back, instead of abandoning his body back there.

Go on, prince, Sua’s voice mocked him. You did this all your life, surely you can keep going a little longer.

He could. He would. There was someone he wanted to see again, after all.

In the little time he was given, he started to run scenarios in his head.

Ivan couldn't go in the spotlight again. His body was a ruined testament to his failure. A rebellious pet was hardly wanted in the media, except for rare occasions where the image sold.

He couldn't pose or act or sing. His voice was gone, his arm was damaged.

He couldn't go to Unsha's wife's parties. He was the subject of the scandal, not a charming accessory.

The realization was absolute, a final, silent verdict. He had no use at all. I don’t know. The truth was a vast, empty plain inside him, but they didn’t want that. Those with no use were worthless.

What would Sua have done, if she had nothing left? Think, think, think–

An idea formed in his head. It was ugly, disgusting, and he hated himself for even thinking about it, but it was the only thing he had.

With a deep breath, he abandoned the little humanity he had left, and made the choice to willingly walk into the depths of despair once again, this time, bringing someone with him.

“I can become a provider.”

That was the only thing he had left to give. His genes and his knowledge. Ivan could only hope it was enough.

He looked up once more, trying to pose as someone confident in their idea, to find Unsha snapping his head back from the cup he had been twirling in boredom. His wife’s betrayed look had vanished, replaced by avid interest. Her eyes, which moments before had looked through him, were now fixed on him with the intensity of a collector spotting a rare, unexpected specimen.

Got them, Sua’s voice whispered, and he had no time to ponder if it sounded sad or if it was just his imagination.

Unsha placed his cup down on the desk with a soft, definitive click. The sound echoed in the new, terrible quiet. “A provider,” he repeated, the words not a question, but an appraisal. He was analyzing the profits in his head.

“Yes, sir,” Ivan said, his voice steadier now that he had found the only card he had left to play. “You can combine my genes and remove the ones you don’t want. As the product grows, I can teach them whatever you deem necessary. Obedience. Loyalty. How to perform. How to please a crowd.”

Unsha’s wife leaned forward, her earlier emotional display now a distant memory. “You would train your own replacement?” she asked, her voice laced with a fascinated, almost hungry curiosity.

Replacement, the word echoed in his mind. That was all he was now. Something to be replaced.

He couldn’t believe he was willingly bringing someone into this cage.

Ivan held her gaze, the last embers of his humanity guttering out in their reflection. “I would ensure the next one is an improvement, even. That your investment is not wasted again.”

“An intriguing proposal,” Unsha murmured, steepling his fingers. “Your firsthand knowledge would be invaluable for the next generation. You could teach them not just what to do, but what not to do.”

“Exactly, sir,” he said, hating how calm he sounded. “Please, give me the chance to make up for my mistakes. I will assure perfection, this time.”

Unsha’s wife looked back at her husband, her eyes gleaming with a new, acquisitive light. She liked the idea. Now, they just needed the verdict of the one who could make it possible.

"Please, dear," she said, her voice dripping with a sudden, girlish persuasion that made Ivan's skin want to crawl off his body forever. "Imagine if we can have a feminine version of him. She would look so cute in dresses. And oh, oh her voice. It would surely sound majestic."

Unsha’s brow furrowed. "We can't assure she won't be a deviant like him. The genetic temperament can be unpredictable."

"They can be monitored, my dear," she countered smoothly, her hand fluttering dismissively. "Closely monitored. To assure nothing wrong happens. We'll correct any flaws early."

Ivan heard the argument as if he weren't a person in the room, but a piece of furniture being discussed for repurposing. A chair with a wobbly leg, valuable for its wood, to be carved into something new.

After a few weak arguments were thrown from both sides, Unsha finally relented to his wife’s wishes. "Very well. I will talk to the veterinarians. As soon as you are able to undergo the procedure, we will contact you again." He waved a hand, his attention already drifting to another matter. "You are dismissed."

“Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

Ivan turned, his movements automatic as he walked towards the door, ignoring how the world felt muted, wrapped in thick cotton, and how his legs screamed in protest from standing for too long on his weakened frame.

"Ivan."

Unsha's voice stopped him, his hand on the door handle. He did not turn back.

"Do not disappoint me."

It wasn't a warning. It was the closing of a trap.

With trembling hands, Ivan stepped out and closed the door behind him with a soft, final click, briefly leaning his forehead against the cool wood, breathing shallowly, his eyes squeezed shut, barely registering the two segyein already shifting, ready to escort him back.

A sharp sting on his palms made itself known to him. He looked down.

His hands were shaking, and deep, bloody crescents were carved into his palms from where his nails had bitten down.

Then it clicked, a truth so simple and bitter it almost brought him to his knees.

Oh, he thought, the numbness receding to reveal the raw, terrified flesh beneath. Back then, I was afraid.

Maybe he had always been.

As he was escorted back to the medical wing, Ivan found himself marveling at the sensation. He flexed and unflexed his hands, watching the torn skin stretch, as if the motion could somehow absolve the feeling. It couldn't, of course.

One couldn't fault him for not knowing how to name these feelings. No one had ever taught him what to feel, and the sterile, approved books provided by the manor were of no use for deciphering the messy chaos of a human heart. For years, he had just been pretending, mimicking the emotions he saw in others, hoping the performance would be real enough.

To discover he could still feel something this intensely, even if it was fear and self-loathing… in a strange, twisted way, it was nice. It made him feel more like a human and less like a product.

As he lay once more on his bed, he kept looking at his hands, at the faint, pale lines now crossing the older, deeper crescents on his palms, and wondered if the new product would one day have hands like that, too.

.

Ivan does not think about it.

He goes through physiotherapy, his body moved by others' hands, and does not think about the future being built in a lab with his blood.

He receives treatment, the cool gel smoothed over the raised, angry tissue of his scars, and does not think about the fact that they are mapping his body for flaws to be eliminated.

He goes to sleep and lays on his bed for hours, watching the sky turn from its perpetual dark twilight to a bruised, softer hue. He eats, he bathes, he walks the prescribed routes. He performs the pantomime of living, and he does not think about it.

Ivan is a vase, shattered and then meticulously glued back together. The seams are visible, the structure is fragile, but it holds its shape. Until, as things that are broken beyond repair and simply stitched together are bound to do, he cracks.

On a normal day, with nothing out of the ordinary, while he was simply resting on his bed, watching the sky, and a single, quiet thought slipped through the barricade of detachment he was building up until that moment: How much longer?

How much longer will he stay like this? How much longer does he have, now that a replacement is coming? How much longer can he take? How much longer until he gets some answers? How much longer until he sees Till again?

And then–

The final, devastating blow.

Will Till even want to see him again? After everything?

The grey-haired man never liked him much, Ivan doesn’t even think the boy saw them as friends. And then Ivan had gone and died for him without ever asking, a grand, selfish act of sacrifice that forced a debt Till never wanted. He hadn't thought it would change anything, but every time he remembers the face of despair he'd seen in Till's eyes in that final moment–a despair that he had put there–he isn’t so sure of that, anymore.

He will return to Till as an uglier version of himself. Scarred, broken, and hollowed out. To make things even worse, he has willingly offered his body to bring another innocent soul into this hell.

Another one.

Another child who will be poked and prodded, molded and manipulated, who will learn to perform joy and swallow pain. Another one who will pass through the same things, because Ivan, in his ultimate failure, had provided the blueprint.

One like him, no less. Is she, too, going to feel this rot inside? Be human, but not quite? Have something wrong inside of her, so fundamental to her being, that she will not have any other choice but accept it as her own, no matter how much she despises it?

A wave of revulsion, so potent and physical it chokes him, rises from the pit of his stomach. He feels filthy. Not just on his skin, but deep in his marrow, in the corrupted genes he has so willingly donated. He is a contaminant. He is the source of the plague, and he has just agreed to spread it.

Ivan curls in on himself, there on the bed, slightly shaking, consumed by the truth he could no longer outrun.

Disgusting, disgusting, filthy, filthy.

The silent cry echoed in the hollow of his chest, finding no one to appeal to. As if his own mind hated him, he was briefly reminded of the time he and Sua spent back there inside that tiny room, exhausted from being thrown around and played with like dolls.

He wonders what she would think of him now.

What will Till think?

Sua, he asks in the quiet of his room, what did I do?

.

When they finally deemed him fit to partially resume his duties, his life snapped back into a familiar rhythm with an almost terrifying precision.

Ivan woke at the same hour, the phantom ache in his chest and the slight catch in his breath the only new additions to his morning. His former exercise regimen was replaced by physiotherapy, a different kind of strain under a different kind of supervision. While the elaborate styling for the public eye was gone, the ritual remained: he was still dressed in acceptable clothes, ushered into showers, and groomed to a standard befitting the manor.

He still took his meals with the other humans (he wonders when he stopped seeing them as pets. Maybe it was the fact that Till would be mad at him for doing so), who never once acknowledged his absence or what happened, but whose whispered conversations and hidden friendship continued being like a language he had never learned.

After, instead of being confined in a room with Unsha's wife to charm guests, he was locked away with an instructor, learning the meticulous science of molding a new product. He learned about behavioral conditioning, reinforcement schedules, and the precise pruning of undesirable traits.

It was almost frightening how easily he could have erased the past few years from his mind, if he wished to do so. The garden, the stage–it could all be folded away like a bad dream, leaving only this sterile, predictable loop. He was back right where he started.

But he didn’t want to.

So, he kept wondering how Till was, if he had finally found a patch of real sky to paint under. He hoped that Mizi was well, that her practiced smiles hadn't completely consumed the genuine ones. He thought about Sua often and how she would have laughed at his face, for being brought back here. He talked little, smiled less. The performance of contentment was a weight he could no longer shoulder flawlessly.

But the facade was kept on, because he already knew no one would come for him. No one ever did.

.

It had not taken long for him to start writing letters, afraid he was going to go insane, if not.

The act began under the guise of study. He would sit at the stark wooden desk, a stack of official parchment before him, and copy dry, approved texts. But one afternoon, his hand, moving almost of its own volition, strayed from the assigned passage. The formal script dissolved into his own scrawl as his mind wandered to a place far from there–to another time, another world.

Hi, he wrote at the top of the page. Ivan stared at the greeting. It looked basic, bare, and boring. He needed to add something.

Hi Till.

Ivan frowned. That sounded weird and impersonal. He crossed it out and stared at the page some more, until he realized Till would probably make fun of him for it, likely flushing a little, too, unaccustomed to receiving such easy affection from anyone.

With a huff and a new warmth in the depths of his heart, he tried again.

.

Hi Till.

I won’t add any greetings. It feels too strange, given everything.

I know how odd this is, writing to you. Especially after all that has happened. Perhaps one day, when we meet again, I will be able to apologize properly for what I did. We could make up, as we did a billion times as children, and I’ll show you this so we can read it and laugh.

Or perhaps we will never meet again

Or perhaps you hate me now

I will not say I am sorry for my actions, because I am not. But I am sorry for the pain they caused you. I truly thought you wouldn’t care, but it seems I was wrong about that. It seems I am wrong about many things lately.

I have had a lot of time to think in this place. I’ve come to realize I was simply scared. I finally recognize that feeling for what it was, and in a strange way, it is a relief to know I am still capable of it. Does that make any sense to you? I also believed that you would gain more from winning than I ever could.

I never planned on surviving to face the aftermath. To have all this time now feels… foreign. I often wonder if this is what it was like for the humans before us–carrying the weight of endless, empty hours.

My mind wanders constantly, and it almost always finds its way back to you. To all of you. I miss you. I often imagine a world where we all got away together, but I suppose life was never that generous to us.

There is so much more I wish to say, but I will save it for the day I might see you again. I hope you would be willing to listen, just this once. And I hope I will find the courage to explain myself properly then.

The instructor will be back any minute, so I must stop for now.

If by some miracle you find Mizi out there, please tell her I miss braiding her hair. They are keeping my hair longer now–apparently, it became popular after Luka’s victory. I will let her braid mine, too, if we ever meet again.

I hope you are well.

Ivan.

.

The days began to bleed into one another, each indistinguishable from the last, until weeks had melted into months within a haze of monotonous routine. Ivan moved through this existence like a ghost, his own life feeling more like a faint, forgotten memory. The only moments that held any weight, any semblance of reality, were the stolen instances when he would take out a fresh sheet of paper and let his hand drift into the familiar, hurried scrawl of a letter he would never send, to missing and dead recipients.

It was in the stark silence following one of these that a profound despair finally settled over him, not with a crash, but with a slow, chilling seep, like groundwater rising to claim a buried long forgotten object. He sat on the edge of his bed, the finished letter a fragile, damning weight on his lap, and felt a hollow ache open up inside his chest.

He didn't understand why it was happening now. For years, performing had been second nature. The constant vigilance, the shaping of his expressions to fit their expectations, the very act of breathing in a way that pleased his overseers, it had been as effortless as blinking. It was the only way he had ever known how to exist.

But now, after having the pleasure to be in the presence of Till, of knowing what feeling whole felt like, the return to such scripted life felt terribly tiring.

Yet, he kept going.

Ivan still rose each morning. He endured the prodding hands of the veterinarians. He sat through the chillingly clinical lessons. The momentum of survival was a powerful force, but it was no longer fueled by ambition or fear.

Perhaps, in a way, it was guilt, because Sua never got to live like this, even though she deserved much more than him. She should have been there in his place, if he had given them the ticket to freedom, once upon a time. Or perhaps, and this was the thought he both cherished and despised, it was a foolish, stubborn hope. The irrational belief that a door might one day swing open and Till would be standing there, all sharp angles and sharper tongue.

It was hope that kept him going. Nonsensical, desperate and illogical, but the only thing he had.

.

Hi Till.

It’s me again.

I know you probably have no desire to receive so many letters from me. Perhaps not even one. But the days here are long, and the silence is a heavy thing. I find I still like talking to you. Perhaps we can continue like this–just me, speaking to an imaginary Till who doesn't mind listening and likes my company, for once.

Forgive me. I’m just being sentimental. Pay no attention to that.

To be honest, I’ve lost count of the months since we last spoke. It feels like a lifetime has passed in this quiet. I hope, more than anything, that you are okay.

It’s a strange and hollow feeling, having no purpose. No one pays me any mind now. Ironic, isn't it? I can almost see you laughing at the thought. It seems I’ve become untouchable, not through strength, but because no one knows what to do with me. Perhaps they are all just relieved that I keep to myself.

But the boredom has begun to eat away at me. Today, I asked if I could read some books on human parenting–the real ones, written by humans. I’m sure Unsha could find one if his library doesn't already hold one. Not those cheap imitations they try to pass off to us.

If by some distant chance you ever read this, you must be wondering why I would look into such a thing.

It’s becaus

Please, don't hate me, but

I will have to tell you in another letter.

Returning to the point, you would not believe the nonsense in their books about humans. One of them claimed our skin can turn blue when we are upset. Blue.

I have to go soon. It was… a small comfort, sharing this with you. It is difficult, sometimes, to pretend that any of this makes sense.

I hope you are well.

Ivan.

.

Ivan hadn’t known what he was feeling most of the time, let alone how to care for others. Yet, perhaps all that time in the garden had left him softer, because when he heard the soft sniffles from a corner of the library, instead of passing by as he always had, his steps had faltered and he curiously peered into the gloom.

There, curled into a tight ball between towers of forgotten books, was a little boy. He was so small, drowning in the standard-issue clothes, his face buried in his knees as his small shoulders shook.

Before he could even analyze the situation, his feet had carried him forward, his shadow falling over the small form. The boy had flinched, looking up with wide, terrified eyes, red-rimmed and swimming with tears. He had scrambled back, a silent expectation of a reprimand.

Ivan didn’t know what to do. He wasn't Till, so no comforting words lived in his body. He wasn't Mizi, he couldn't radiate a warmth that melted fear. He was just Ivan. Empty, hollow Ivan.

Slowly, giving the boy every chance to flee, he had sunk down to sit on the cold floor beside him. He didn't touch, he just… shared the space, leaning his back against the same shelf, the hard spines of the books digging into his spine, a familiar, almost comforting pain.

“Are you okay?” He asked, the words feeling foreign and profoundly stupid in his mouth. Of course the boy wasn’t okay.

The boy had just shaken his head, a fresh tear tracing a clean path through the dust on his cheek.

“Did someone hurt you?” Ivan had tried again, his voice low, barely a whisper.

A shrug. Then, a small, broken voice. “They… they said I’m not good enough. That my scores are low. That I’m… I’m a waste of resources.”

The words had landed on Ivan with the weight of a lifetime. A waste of resources. He had heard that before, whispered in the halls, etched into cold evaluations. He had thought it about himself more times than he could count.

Without thinking, driven by an impulse he didn't understand, Ivan had shifted. He hadn't opened his arms or made a grand gesture. He had simply turned slightly, creating a space. An invitation.

The boy had stared for a long moment, his lower lip trembling. Then, with a small sob, he had scrambled into the offered space, pressing his face against Ivan’s side, his tiny hands fisting in the fabric of Ivan’s shirt.

The first, detached thought that had crossed Ivan’s mind was that the boy was going to weep all over his clothes, and they would become damp and cold. But he was already committed. Ivan had frozen for a heartbeat, his body rigid as stone. Then, slowly, hesitantly, as if moving through deep water, he had brought his arm up and wrapped it around the boy’s thin, trembling shoulders.

The fabric had indeed grown damp, a cold, clinging patch against his skin. It was an objectively unpleasant sensation, one that should have made him recoil into the sterile comfort of his own detachment. But a strange thing had happened. As the boy sobbed, the vibrations of his grief traveling through Ivan’s chest, the initial rigidity in his limbs had begun to thaw. It wasn't a warmth that spread through him, as he was certain he was incapable of that, but a slow, glacial shift happened nonetheless.

As he sat there, staring straight ahead at the opposite bookshelf, its rows of titles became a blur of meaningless words. His own thoughts, usually a quiet, cynical hum, had gone completely silent. There was no analysis, no judgment, no desire to be anywhere else.

For the first time in a very, very long time, the hollow space inside him hadn't felt quite so empty. It had felt… occupied. And the profound, devastating sadness of it was that he knew it couldn't last.

.

Hi Mizi.

I hope you are doing well.

Forgive me for not writing to you until now and just writing to Till. (I can already picture you giving me that look of yours.)

Why am I writing to you so suddenly, you may ask? I hugged a child today, and it made me think of you. Or rather, it made me remember your hugs. I never thought I would miss them until I realized I could no longer recall exactly how they felt.

This might make you a little jealous, but it also made me remember hugging Sua once. She told me I was a cold hugger. I didn’t understand what she meant–none of the books I searched through had any information on it–but I think I understand now.

Before you, no one had ever hugged me. So, like all things we try for the first time, mine were bound to be stiff and uncomfortable.

If

When we meet again, I hope you will let me hug you more. Until it no longer feels unnatural.

As I write this, I realize I never told you how profoundly grateful I am for your existence. I hope one day I can say this to you in person. I know you will say there is no need for thanks, but I am saying it anyway.

So, thank you. I wish I could go back and tell my younger self to cherish our time together more.

Thank you, from Ivan.

P.S. I’ve been thinking about Sua a lot lately. Do you do that, too? I suppose that’s a silly question. You are surely the one who thinks of her most often. Missing someone you can no longer talk to is a weird, devasting feeling.

.

It did not surprise him when a handler announced they would take him to the lab in the morning. His body had healed, and this was the inevitable conclusion. The moment had simply arrived.

Later, Unsha’s wife came to congratulate him, her voice bright with an excitement he could not comprehend. He merely nodded, the feeling in his chest a distant, frozen numbness.

That night, he lay in the sterile silence of his room, exhaustion weighing his limbs but sleep refusing to come. The constant, low hum of the medical machine filled the space, a sound as familiar to him now as his own heartbeat. In the quiet, he tried to summon an emotion, any emotion, that fit the occasion. He sifted through them like old garments: anger, resignation, the cold dread that had been his oldest companion. But none fit. There was only the static. The hollow, resonant hum of nothing at all.

He regretted that things had come to this, but then, what choice had ever truly been his? If presented with the same impossible options, he knew, in the crushing weight of his honesty, that he would have walked the same path.

A soft, bitter huff of air escaped him–the ghost of a laugh. The irony was not lost on him. He had thought he was becoming a little bit more human, but maybe that just made him more cruel.

Who would have thought.

.

Hi Sua.

I know you’d probably snarl if I handed this to you. You’d throw it away, only to retrieve it later when no one was looking. That’s the kind of person you are–kind, even when you don’t want anyone to know it.

It’s strange

How do I

I am sorry to burden you with this when you should be at peace, wherever you are. (I can already picture you rolling your eyes at my choices.) Especially since our last conversation ended the way it did. But I have no one else to tell, and keeping this locked inside my chest is no longer an option. I’m selfish that way. I can only hope you won’t resent me too much for it.

Till would surely hate me for it, if he doesn’t already. Mizi would never look at me the same. So I figured the only one who might understand is you.

By this time tomorrow, I will officially become a provider.

There it is. What a sentence to write.

I tell myself I had no other choice, but that doesn’t make me feel any less… vile. A provider. What a sterile, horrible word for such a monumental thing. They make it sound so simple, like donating a spare part. They never talk about the person who will be built from it.

What right do I have to pass this on? This… rot I’ve been fighting my entire life. She will get my DNA, but what else is bundled with it? My selfishness? My coldness? Will she be like me? I hope not.

I know this world is a nightmare. We lived it. We bled in it. And yet, I am so profoundly weak that I am bringing a new soul into this hell. All because I was too cowardly to choose the alternative.

The truth is, I am a far greater coward than any of you ever could have imagined. Or perhaps, you knew it all along. And because of that cowardice, there will be a living, breathing consequence. A child who never asked for this. A child who will have to navigate this awful place, carrying a piece of the very person who helped build the walls of their cage.

I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. Nothing will change. I suppose I just wanted to confess my sins to someone who once knew me as a person, before I became this.

I hope, wherever you are, it is infinitely kinder than this place.

See you someday, perhaps.

Ivan.

.

The world was muffled, swaddled in layers of thick, sterile cotton. Sounds–the clipped tones of the professionals, Unsha’s wife’s delighted cooing, the hum of machinery, the frantic beat of his own heart–all reached him as if from the far end of a long tunnel. His body felt both leaden and terrifyingly weightless.

Then, they arranged her in his arms.

His limbs, heavy and uncooperative, were positioned by efficient, gloved hands. A bundle of white linens was settled into the cradle they formed. It was small. Impossibly so. And warm. A living, breathing heat that seeped through the fabric and into the perpetual cold of his skin.

Ivan’s gaze, distant and unfocused, drifted downward, settling on the crown of a tiny, perfectly shaped head. The entire world narrowed to that single point of contact–the warmth, the devastating weight. And then it rose within him, a single, horrifying impulse that bypassed all reason: a primal scream from the deepest, most wounded part of his soul.

Drop her.

The thought was crystalline in its clarity and monstrous in its simplicity. Let the small, warm weight fall. Let the tiny skull meet the unyielding, sterilized floor. It would be a mercy. It would spare her the evaluations, the conditioning, the cold eyes, the crushing weight of being a manufactured thing. All of it, gone in an instant.

His fingers twitched as his arms trembled with the violent effort of both holding her and resisting the devastating urge to let go.

And then, she opened her eyes.

It was a slow, bleary unfurling. Two dark, hazy pools that sought focus in the bright, clinical light. They found his.

And Ivan thought, with a jolt that stole the air from his lungs, Oh. We have the same eyes.

The connection lasted only a second.

"That's enough for initial bonding," a worker chimed in, their voice sterile. "We need her for the checkup."

As they peeled the bundle from his arms, turning away with the living evidence of his own flesh and blood, a new feeling erupted within him, so ferocious it was dizzying: a complete and utter hatred.

He hated her. He hated the tiny, helpless creature who stared back at him with his own eyes. He hated her for existing. He hated her for the sheer, terrifying fact of her life. And with equal, violent intensity, he hated himself. He hated his body for creating her. He hated his genes for marking her as his. He hated the traitorous part of his soul that, for one fleeting, unforgivable moment, had not seen a product, but a baby.

His baby.

As the lab door hissed shut, the workers disappearing with her in their arms, a thought solidified in his mind, cold and hard:

There is no way I can ever come to love her.

.

Hi Till.

I think today was one of the worst days of my life. And I have died once, so I feel I am an authority on the subject.

I hate this. So much.

I miss

I want

To be honest with you, I have no idea what I am doing. I am just buying time, I suppose, until I might see you again. But sometimes I wonder if any of this is worth it. Who knows when that day will come? You might not even remember me by then. Perhaps nothing I have done will matter at all.

Today, I did nothing. I felt… awful. Wrong. I spent most of the day lying on my bed, staring at nothing. A segyein told me I had to go tend to the product. It didn’t make me feel better. It only made everything feel so much worse.

So many times today, I thought about giving up on this entire idea. But then I thought of what you would do. What Mizi would do. And I realized I have to treat this child with a little more compassion. They deserve that much, at least.

I suppose I am more in tune with this whole… emotion thing now. Though, I confess, I ran away from the child the first chance I got. So perhaps not.

I hope, more than anything, that you are okay. I think about you all the time, now that you are gone.

Ivan.

.

The first few months, he avoided her the best he could. He cited fatigue, the need for extended physical therapy, any excuse he could come up with, really. They were flimsy, but they were accepted. Every day he didn't have to see her was a small victory, a postponement of an inevitable confrontation he was not equipped to face.

When the deferrals finally ran out, he adopted a new strategy: cold, impersonal efficiency. He would arrive precisely fifteen minutes late and leave the moment the clock signaled his allotted time was over. He performed the necessary tasks–talking to her briefly, observing her from a distance–with the detached focus he grew used to. He never held her nor could bring himself to meet her gaze. The few times a caretaker tried to place her in his arms, his skin crawled with a revulsion so profound it left him nauseated.

However, she didn’t seem to share this repulsion. She would light up at his arrival, her small hands patting the air in his direction. Her smile was a wide, guileless thing that unsettled him deeply. He would dissect it, thinking, My smile was never like that. It must be from the other provider. And when she opened her eyes, the dark, familiar pools that mirrored his own, he felt a surge of something bitter. He began to keep a silent, miserable score in his mind: Her nose is mine. Her laugh must be from someone else. The shape of her ears is foreign. It was a desperate attempt to create distance, to sever the biological tether that choked him.

Ivan didn't know how much time passed in this cold war against his own blood. She grew, and with growth came a stubborn, inexplicable attachment. Perhaps it was because they were alike in their isolation. Or perhaps, as the only human allowed near her for extended, consistent periods, he was simply the only constant in her sterile world. She began to cry when he left, a soft, distressed sound that echoed in the hallway. It was a strange, terrifying feeling–to be so unconditionally needed. To know that his departure caused a genuine, unperformative sadness in another living being.

He doesn’t think anyone ever wanted his presence around so much before.

The breaking point came on a night when her cries did not cease. The automated soothing systems had failed, and the staff's efforts were futile, so, urged by Unsha’s displeased gaze, he was forced to enter her room to keep her company, since his presence was the only thing that soothed her.

He didn't touch her, merely stood by the crib. Her small hand reached through the bars, fingers blindly grasping the air. Slowly, hesitantly, he extended a single finger, something unknown inside of him pleading for the contact. Her tiny hand closed around it, holding on with a surprising strength.

Slowly, he started to go down, sinking to the floor, his forehead resting against the cool bars of the crib as he lay on his knees beside her. He did not pull his hand away. And through the long, silent hours of the night, kneeling there as she finally slept, her hand still trustingly wrapped around his finger, he whispered it again and again into the stillness, a broken litany of regret.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, the words useless and pointless. "I'm so, so sorry."

.

Hi Till.

I wish you were here

I wish I was with you

I think I have finally become a monster. A real one. The kind that looks at something innocent and feels nothing but cold.

They made me see her. I tried to avoid it, used every excuse I could muster, but they always win, don’t they? Now, it’s part of my routine. I go there. I stand. I leave. I never touch her. I can’t.

She smiles a lot, which I can’t help but find odd. All I can do is pick it apart. I look for myself in her and I hate what I find. I hate what I don’t find. I keep a list in my head–this part is mine, this part is from a stranger. It’s the only way to breathe.

The worst part is that she cries when I leave. No one has ever cried when I left a room, Till. No one has ever wanted me to stay. It should mean something, but all it does is terrify me.

Last night, she wouldn’t stop crying. Nothing worked. So they made me go in. I just stood there, and then… her hand reached out. Just a small hand, grasping at nothing. And I gave her my finger.

She held on, tightly, and the urge to apologize filled me.

I don’t even know who I was apologizing to. To her. To you. To myself. For being this empty, hateful thing that doesn’t know how to love properly even someone I willingly brought into this ruin.

I hope you never have to feel this. Any of it.

Ivan.

.

The change did not happen in a moment, but in a series of small, quiet surrenders.

It began with silence. The sterile silence of her room was a void he felt compelled to fill, for some reason. One day, without thinking, he found himself speaking to her. Not the required, clipped talks they urged him to do in the name of ‘her improvement’, but a low, steady monologue about nothing. He told her about the food he had that morning. He described the book he was reading. He even sang her a lullaby, sometimes, enjoying the way her gaze would focus on him, like it was all that mattered in the room. It made him feel less like he was talking to himself. Less lonely.

Then, it was the proximity. Standing several feet away became standing by the crib. Standing by the crib became, one exhausted afternoon, sitting in the chair beside it. His body was rigid, braced for… something. But nothing came. Only the soft sound of her breathing.

The first true touch was an accident. She was on a mat on the floor, struggling to reach a soft, colored block just beyond her fingertips. On instinct, his hand darted out and nudged it closer. Her small, starfish hand landed on his knuckle, patting it in a clumsy, grateful gesture. He flinched, but he did not pull away. The contact was not the revulsion he expected. It was just… warm.

After that, a barrier had been crossed. He started offering a single finger for her to hold when he entered the room. He began to notice things–the way her whole face scrunched up when she yawned, the particular cadence of her babbling when she was content. He stopped keeping the miserable score of her features. Instead, he found himself cataloging her discoveries: the day she learned to roll over, the first time she laughed at the flickering light of one of the equipment there.

Ivan never made a conscious decision to love her. Love was a foreign, grandiose word, one he could not apply to the fragile, complicated thing growing inside him. But he learned to like her, at least. He liked to have her company around. He liked to watch her grow. He liked the quiet, focused expression she wore when she was examining a new object. He liked the way she would immediately calm when he picked her up, her head tucking trustingly against his chest, as if she never found anything safer.

The feeling was the most disorienting he had ever known. All his life, Ivan had understood love, like, hate and other complicated feelings, were conditional. You performed. You were useful. You won. Then, and only then, might you receive a shred of approval, a fleeting warmth that could be withdrawn the moment you failed. His entire existence had been a ledger of conditions met and unmet.

But this was different.

She did not love him because he was strong, or clever, or pretty. She loved him when he was silent, his hands clenched at his sides. She loved him when he arrived late. She would reach for him with the same unshakable certainty, whether he felt worthy of it or not. It felt less like an emotion and more like a fundamental law of her universe: He is here. Therefore, I am safe. Therefore, I love him. This unconditional certainty didn't feel warm, at first, but terrifying. It was a responsibility so immense it threatened to crush him, because how could he ever be the solid ground upon which a whole world was built?

However, maybe he needed it. Maybe they both did.

Ivan never made a conscious decision to love her, but, the day they both went to Unsha’s garden to some fresh air, and her eyelids fluttered shut, her body going limp in the grass, he found himself wanting to.

Instead of calling for a caretaker to take her back, Ivan found himself lying down beside her, mirroring her position. He watched the steady rise and fall of her small back. Then, carefully, he shifted closer until his forehead rested against her temple.

Her skin was impossibly soft, and the contact sent a quiet hum through his entire nervous system. He could feel the whisper of her breath on his cheek. In that moment, there was neither a terrifying future nor an agonizing past. There was only the shared rhythm of their breathing, the press of skin against skin, and a peace so profound it felt like a form of amnesia, wiping away every scar.

He closed his eyes, and slept.

.

Hi Till.

I found myself telling her about you today.

It happened without thinking. She was trying to stack these awful, colorful blocks, and her frustration was a quiet, tense thing. It reminded me of you, when the songs you were writing refused to bend to your will. She had that same focused scowl, a wrinkle of pure, undiluted will between her brows. So I said, “I knew someone who got that same look. He’d tear pages upon pages apart if a single line felt wrong. Looked stupid doing it, too.”

She just looked at me, with those eyes that see straight through me, and babbled something insistent. I think she wanted the rest of the story.

What could I say? I ended up telling her too much, as so often happens when the story is about you. I think she would like you, and I know, with a certainty that aches, that you would be so much better at this than I am.

It’s strange, the things that come back. The other day, she found a single, stubborn red flower in the middle of the garden. She held it out to me, her whole face solemn, as if she were presenting the most precious thing ever, not just something she found at random. I took it, and for a moment, I wasn't in this horrible manor. I was back in the garden with you, under that artificial sky, before everything fell apart. I could almost smell the cheap soap you always used. I tucked her flower between the pages of a book I won’t return to the library. It’s still there, pressed flat and fading.

She has a habit of collecting things. A smooth, white pebble. A twisted bit of plastic she likes. She brings them to me, and I have been appointed the sole validator of their worth. I have become the keeper of a museum of useless, beautiful things. And the most foolish part is, I keep every single one. My quarters are starting to look like a nest, an archive of her fleeting wonders.

I think you’d laugh at me. You’d probably say I’ve gone soft, and you’d be right. I didn't know I contained this kind of softness. It feels foreign and a miracle, all at once.

It’s hard to not be afraid, Till. Every time I have to take her for an evaluation (they happen like clockwork every two weeks) it drags me back to the reality of where we are. The cold eyes, the clipboards, the silent judgments. As soon as she learns to talk and walk properly, I know they will begin to take her apart. I can't help but hate myself for bringing her into this. My love feels like such an ugly, selfish thing, sometimes.

I don’t know if I’m building her a safe place or just a prettier cage. But I hope I can, at least, make this whole experience a little bit more bearable for her.

I hope you are safe.

Ivan.

P.S. She says, hi, I think. I’m still trying to figure out what all those noises mean.

.

There is a fleeting peace in watching her discover the world before it is tainted by sorrow. To her, everything is a revelation. The way dust motes dance in a beam of artificial light is a miracle. The sound of a door sliding shut is a fascinating mystery. She points at everything with a soft, questioning hum, and in her eyes, the universe is still innocent, still kind.

When she finally was a year old, they gave her a designation, a string of letters that Unsha’s wife thought was pretty and, most importantly, trending. She was still too young, but they wanted to put it behind her neck. He stayed silent through it all, afraid of what would come out of his mouth.

It felt wrong to name such a naive, innocent person with so little love. So, that night, he stayed by her side and started to give her a list of names he liked.

He started with the names from the old stories, the human myths he'd secretly devoured in the quiet of his room. "What about... Ophelia?" He watched her. She blinked slowly, unimpressed. "No, you're right. Too much tragedy in that one." He tried another. "Anastasia?" She smacked her lips and turned her head to the side. "Too severe," he conceded with a faint, almost-smile. It was a strange, funny game.

Ivan went through a dozen. Some she ignored. Others made her fuss slightly. None earned more than a passing glance. A flicker of desperation crept in. He remembers Sua calling him tasteless and with zero creativity. What if this extends to his name-giving skills?

He thought of a dog-eared astronomy text, the one with the grainy, beautiful images of forgotten solar systems. He remembered a small, icy moon, captured in a grainy photograph, orbiting a ringed giant all alone in the black. A solitary, steadfast companion in the vast, cold dark.

"Phoebe," he said, the name leaving his lips as a soft breath. "It's a moon. A small, distant moon."

Her reaction was instantaneous. Her eyes, which had been heavy with sleep, widened a little bit. A gummy, unreserved smile broke across her face, and a clear, delighted laugh bubbled out of her–a sound that seemed to make the very air in the room shimmer.

Ivan felt his own breath catch.

A feeling so tender and fierce welled up in his chest it was almost painful. He reached through the bars, his finger gently stroking her cheek.

"Phoebe," he repeated. A moon, a goddess, his product. "My little moon."

Ivan starts calling her that when it’s just the two of them. Something theirs, that none of the segyein can take from them, no matter how much they want to.

.

Ivan liked to tell her about Mizi, Sua and Till often. However, Ivan didn't realize how often Till’s name appeared in their stories until the day she spoke it herself.

He had been in the middle of a story, one that seemed from an entirely different life, now. He was telling her about the time Till had discovered he’d gone to get sweets with Mizi, being filled with a jealousy he’d worn like a crown, sulking for days.

“He was so angry,” Ivan murmured, a faint, nostalgic smile touching his lips as Phoebe played with the ends of his hair, now surpassing his shoulders. “Till didn’t speak to me for a full week, just glared from across the–”

“Tiww!”

The sound was clear as a bell, sharp and purposeful, and he couldn’t do anything but stop, with wide eyes, and like at her with wonder.

For a single, heart-stopping second, pure, unadulterated joy surged through his body, so potent it was dizzying. Her first word. A real, intentional word. It wasn’t a babble or a cry, but a name. His chest swelled, his eyes now soft as he looked at her, who had just reached a milestone he’d secretly been waiting for.

And then, the word crashed into him.

Till.

The joy curdled, instantly replaced by a wave of scalding shame that rushed up his neck and burned his cheeks. He froze, his faint smile dissolving into a look of sheer, exposed horror. How many times had he said that name for it to be her first word? Despite Sua saying he had not an ounce of shame, this time, he had the decency to be at least mortified.

He stared at her, his brilliant, perceptive little moon, who was now looking immensely pleased with herself, happily repeating “Tiww! Tiww!” as if summoning her favorite chaotic deity.

Ivan sank back, running a hand over his flushed face. He was overjoyed. He was horrified. He was a fool.

“Till,” he repeated softly, the name a sigh of surrender on his lips.

Phoebe’s eyes lit up, taking his repetition as a game. “Tiww!” she chirped back, louder.

A choked sound escaped Ivan, something between a sob and a laugh. “Yes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion he couldn't name. “Till.”

“Tiww!” she giggled, clapping her hands together.

And then Ivan was laughing, truly laughing, a low, rusty sound he barely recognized as his own. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, their private universe shrinking to this single, shared point of contact. They sat there, trading the name of a stubborn, absent boy back and forth like a secret, until the shame melted away and all that was left was the pure, uncomplicated joy of her first word, and the profound, ridiculous love that had made it possible.

.

She was a little over two years old when she met another human besides Ivan for the first time. The idea was Unsha’s wife’s, who had read in a segyein manual on human development that they were ‘social creatures requiring peer-to-peer enrichment.’ The theory, like most of their theories, was sterile and missed the point entirely, but at least this time, it seemed like a good idea.

The other child was a little girl with long, carefully styled blue hair and wide, bright eyes. She was everything a segyein might imagine a well-adjusted human child to be. Phoebe, unfortunately, had inherited Ivan's dark eyes and his unnerving habit of staring. She stood perfectly still, her black, serious eyes fixed on the new girl, dissecting her with an intensity that was far beyond her years. Needless to say, the other girl was utterly terrified. She burst into tears within minutes and refused to leave her caretaker’s side.

Phoebe made a few valiant, if clumsy, attempts. She offered her favorite pebble. She held out a drawing of a lopsided bird. Each gesture was met with a whimper and a retreat. Defeated, her small shoulders slumping, she trudged back to Ivan’s side and leaned heavily against his leg.

He had watched the entire exchange with a familiar, cold knot in his stomach–the feeling of seeing his own failures mirrored in his daughter was never one he particularly liked. It made him feel guilty.

She looked up at him, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “What do you do when someone doesn’t want to be your friend?”

The easy, parental answers–be patient, be kind–felt like lies. They had never worked for him. So he gave her the only truth he had ever known, the strategy born in the competitive, lonely experience of his own childhood.

“Have you tried stealing something from her?” Ivan asked, his tone flat and serious.

Phoebe’s eyes widened in horror. “Why would I do that? That’s mean.”

A slow, weary smile touched Ivan’s lips. “It is, isn’t it?”

Unfortunately for her, he didn't have all the answers in the world. He hoped she wouldn't be like him, but if she was, there was no way he was going to tell her that she wouldn't be gaining friends any time soon, that people would find her terrifying. So he set about comforting her.

“You did all the right things,” he placed a hand on her head, patting it softly, “you even offered her a treasure from your collection. That was the right thing to do. If she did not want it, that is her loss.” He paused, choosing his next words with more care than he had ever chosen anything in his life, as he noticed she wasn’t really feeling convinced.

“Hey, wanna know a magic trick?” Ivan asked. Her eyes sparkled, and she nodded.

“Repeat with me: cheer up.”

“Cheer up,” she mumbled, her voice small, a little confused.

“Cheer up,” he said again, his voice a little firmer, a little brighter.

“Cheer up,” she repeated, a tiny flicker of curiosity cutting through her gloom.

Back and forth they went, their voices weaving the two words into a strange, rhythmic chant. “Cheer up.” “Cheer up.” With each repetition, the words began to shed their meaning, becoming just a sound, a shared breath between them. A small smile threatened the corners of Phoebe’s mouth. Ivan saw it and leaned in closer, his own voice dropping to a playful whisper.

“Cheer up.”

“Cheer up!” Phoebe finally giggled, the sound bursting forth like a freed bird.

They kept going until the word was nonsense and the only thing that mattered was the game of it, the silly back-and-forth that filled the room and pushed the hurt away. Finally, he stopped, cupping her warm, smiling face in his hands.

“There,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. “All better now.”

.

Hi Till.

I know I say this in every one, but I hope you are okay. Today is officially five years since I started writing these letters to you. The pile in my room is enormous, you wouldn't believe it. I don’t know if I’ll actually give these to you or not, when we meet. Part of me wants to but I don’t know. I don’t know if you’re the same anymore. Or if you even remember me.

I hope you do.

But maybe you won’t anymore. I don’t know. I’d get it if you were tired of it. I had way too much time to think and I realized I never really did anything for you. Do you remember when we tried to run away, once? I’ve gone over that situation in my head a hundred times and I hate it every time. I should have said or done something. Something more. I don’t know what, but we never were the same after, and I hated it. I figured out I never asked you about it again or did anything to make you feel better. I just left.

I hope I can be a better friend to you when I get back. When I see you again I want to give you a hug. Is that okay? I’ll ask you first in case it’s not. And I guess that depends on whether you even still want us to be frieqifjavpaer

He looked up from the paper, the ink still wet from his last, aborted word. "Can you not?" Ivan asked, his voice soft with exasperation.

Phoebe had picked up the pen he'd been using, her small fingers smudging the dark ink. She leaned in, trying to peek at the sprawling script, but the letters were just mysterious shapes to her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice a whisper, now late at night.

Ivan sighed, setting the letter aside and lying next to her. "It's a letter. For someone very important to me."

"Who?"

"Till."

Phoebe rolled her eyes with a dramatic, five-year-old's flair. "Not him again."

A faint, weary smile touched Ivan’s lips. “Don’t be like that. He’s nice.”

“But you always say you two fought all the time!”

"That’s just how we are. But we still like each other." His grin faded, the forced cheer draining away to reveal the bitter truth beneath. "Well. I still like him. I don’t know if he still likes me. It’s been a long time since we talked."

"Why?"

The question, so simple and direct, struck a place too deep and raw to touch. Instead of answering, he opened his arms. "Come here."

Ivan pulled her into a tight hug that was as much for his comfort as for hers. He found the spot just below her ribs-the same place he was ticklish–and wiggled his fingers until her serious questions were forgotten in a burst of helpless giggles.

When she finally lay still, her small body a warm, heavy weight on his chest, he began to gently caress her hair. Tomorrow, he thought, the apprehension creeping in. Tomorrow, she starts her etiquette classes. And I will have to keep doing this.

He felt her breathing even out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. Carefully, he shifted, laying her down beside him and pulling the blanket up to her chin. His gaze was drawn to the window, to the same unyielding view of the same dark, void sky.

A new thought, sharp and clear and desperate, cut through the numbness.

I need to get her out of here.

.

When Phoebe returned from her first etiquette class, her face a hollow mask void of the bright curiosity she’d once possessed, Ivan felt a part of his own soul wither. Her small arms were marked with angry red lines, and she didn’t cry, she simply stood in the doorway, utterly still. He held her through the night as she finally trembled in her sleep, and he, staring at the wall with eyes of stone, planned. And pushed on through.

When she was dressed as a living doll for Unsha’s wife, forced to sit perfectly still on a gilded chair for the entirety of a grand, suffocating party, Ivan stood in the shadows and watched. He watched the light fade from her eyes as the hours dragged on, saw her tiny hands clenched white in her lap. He did not intervene. He stood there, a statue, and with every forced, pretty smile she offered, he planned. And pushed on through.

When he found her staring listlessly from their window, and his words of comfort landed on her like dust on glass, unheard and unacknowledged, his heart shattered. She had learned the cruelest lesson of all: that tomorrow would only bring more of the same. That morning, as he brushed her hair, his hands steady and his voice soft, he planned. And pushed on through.

When she began to flinch at the touch of silk, associating the fine fabric with the scrutiny and performance of the parties, he simply switched her clothes to soft, plain cotton without a word, absorbing the disapproving glances of their owners, he planned. And pushed on through.

When he overheard a visiting lord comment on what a "charming little asset" she was becoming, Ivan’s knuckles turned white around the tray he carried, but his expression remained one of placid servitude. He bowed slightly, and in the cage of his own mind, he planned.

He planned and he planned and he planned.

.

Maybe Sua and Mizi were right after all, and there is a God out there. Because not long after Ivan’s resolve to find an escape for Phoebe had hardened into a permanent, desperate knot in his chest, he found one. A rebel, hiding in plain sight amidst the pet humans.

Not all rebels carved the names from their bodies, but most did, believing it was the first step to shedding their masters' shackles. It was also, however, the easiest way to be spotted. The clever ones learned to fake it, using pigments and subtle ways to mimic the ownership mark. This one had been clever, but not clever enough. The false name on her arm was falling out, and for a fleeting second, Ivan saw the unmarked skin beneath.

He caught her eye across the crowded dinner hall, his gaze flicking down to her arm and then back to her face. Her eyes widened in a flash of pure panic before she schooled her features, quickly pulling her sleeve down. All the while, Ivan thought, a single, triumphant word echoing in his mind: There.

Later that night, when he was assigned to clean the plates in the steamy, tiled scullery, he was not surprised to feel a presence beside him at the sink.

“Say what you want,” the girl snarled under her breath, the words quiet but sharp enough to cut through the clatter of porcelain.

Ivan became the very picture of perfect innocence. “What makes you think I want something?” he asked, calmly tying his hair back into a low ponytail before picking up the first greasy plate.

“Please, spare me the theatrics. There is no way you don’t want something to keep your mouth shut.”

He played around a little more, letting the silence stretch as he scrubbed, enjoying the way her tension coiled tighter with every passing second. He could feel her anxious energy like a live wire. Finally, when the quiet seemed ready to snap, he spoke, his voice low and devoid of all its previous amusement.

“Do you know I have a product, yes?”

“The little girl with the long, curly brown hair, right?” she replied, her tone clipped. “There is no way I wouldn’t know. Unsha likes to flaunt her around everywhere.”

“Yes,” Ivan said, the word flat and heavy. “I want you to get her out of here.”

“What.”

“You heard me.”

"Are you insane?" she hissed, leaning closer. The soapy water sloshed over the rim of the sink. "That's not a request. That's a death sentence for both of us. Getting out of this manor is hard enough for me, and I'm trained. You want me to smuggle a child out? A child they watch like a prized jewel?"

Ivan didn't look at her, his focus seemingly entirely on scrubbing a stubborn bit of food from a porcelain plate. "It's not a request," he confirmed, his voice dangerously calm. "It's the price for my silence. And my help."

"Your help?" she echoed, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. "You think you can help? You're just another pet, Ivan. A slightly prettier, slightly more favored one, but a pet all the same. You have no power here."

“I can give you an entire map of this place,” he started, his voice low and methodical. “Not just the halls. The servant passages, the ventilation shafts large enough for a small person, the blind spots in the patrols. I can deactivate the collars. I’ve been studying the system for years. I can even open one of the gates long enough for a clean exit. The only thing I can’t quite plan yet is the spaceship to get you off this planet, but that… that much I assume your people can provide, right?”

She shook her head, a frantic, nervous motion. "You don't understand the risk. One wrong signal, one delayed clearance–"

He placed the clean plate on the rack with a precise, quiet click, the sound final.

"I am not asking you to do it tomorrow. I am not even asking you to do it this month. I am asking you to make it possible." He picked up another dirty plate, his hands steady though his knuckles were white. "I will do the rest. I will create the diversion. I will bear the consequences. You just need to provide the path.”

“But still, this is–” she protested, her voice fraying at the edges.

“Please.”

The word was a broken thing. It hung in the air, utterly foreign coming from him. He would have knelt if he could, if the act wouldn't have drawn every eye in the room. He poured every ounce of his crumbling resolve into that single syllable.

“You are my only chance,” he whispered, his eyes finally meeting hers, and in their depth, she must have found something there, because she let out a slow, shaky breath, her shoulders slumping in defeat, or perhaps, acceptance.

"Fine," she whispered, the word barely audible. "But we do this my way. You get me that map. Every detail. And you don't make a move, not a single one, until I give you the ok. You play the perfect, pretty pet until then. Did I make myself clear?"

A tension he hadn't even realized he was holding released from his shoulders. He gave a single, sharp nod.

"Crystal."

The woman picked up a towel and began mechanically drying a plate he had just cleaned. She didn't look at him when she spoke, her voice low and thoughtful.

"What about you?"

Ivan’s hands, submerged in the soapy water, stilled for a fraction of a second. It was the only sign that he’d heard her. He had expected the question, yet it was still hard to answer.

"What about me?" Ivan asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"Don't play dumb," she said, a little more edge returning to her voice. "The plan. You get us the map, you disable the collars, you open the gate. You hand her off to me. What happens to you after that?"

He shrugs, as if it didn’t matter.

“I stay and deal with the consequences, I suppose.”

She stopped drying, turning to face him fully. "Who knows what they will do to you. They might even kill you, you know. And it won’t be quick. They will want to make it an example of what happens when one disobeys."

Ivan took a sharp, quiet breath.

It would be a lie to say he didn’t care.

A part of him, the part that was still a boy dreaming of the stars with Till, screamed in protest. He wanted. He wanted it with a ferocity that was a physical ache. He wanted to go with her, to feel the light of some free world on both their faces. He wanted to see her grow, to see the light return to her eyes and stay there. He wanted to find Mizi and Till, to sit with them and tell them everything, to finally hand over the worn stack of letters that held his heart. He wanted to look Till in the eye and say all the things that had festered in the silence for years: I'm sorry. Thank you. I love you.

The wanting was a well inside him, vast and empty, things fell there and never came back.

But he had learned a long time ago that there are things in this world one simply cannot have. A second chance. A future. Love.

He looked down at his hands, the hands that had comforted Phoebe and would soon betray the very ones who gave him the possibility of being alive until now. They were steady.

"I know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "But I will be damned if I let her become like me."

Her safety was the only outcome that mattered. There was no 'Ivan' in the equation after she was gone. Simple as that.

.

Hi Till.

This might be my last letter to you. Grim way to start things, I know, but you won’t ever receive them anyway, so I might as well just pour everything I want here.

There are some people we meet who feel like they were written into our story long before we even knew what love meant. I think you were that person to me.

I tried to forget about you, so many times, but the truth is: all the unknown yearnings have long faded into a peaceful contentment of just feeling blessed you get to experience such a wonderful opportunity of knowing you.

You know, I always thought I was a well. A deep, dark place where good things–affection, joy, hope–would fall into and never see the light of day again. I never felt much, not profound hate or consuming love, and I convinced myself I was fine with that stillness. But ever since I met you, I realized that was a lie. You were the stone that broke my still surface, and the ripples have never truly stopped. Not a single day has passed without you occupying my mind. It’s as if I carry you around in my pocket, as a secret little weight. I tried to get rid of it, but the thought of you is now a part of me, just as much as my own heart is.

I really miss you. The admission feels both childish and dumb. I want to walk with you until our feet ache, and talk with you until our voices grow hoarse. I want to fight with you and then make amends, just to feel the softness of your forgiveness. I want to listen to the sounds of the world with you, from the sound of the wind to the waves of an ocean, just to know that I am hearing it all through the filter of your presence. I want to be kind to you, I want to listen to you, I want to support you, I want to see you shine so brightly that it blinds everyone who ever doubted you.

We were never together, and we never can be. Yet, I wish for it every day. You are not perfect, but I adore the things you consider your flaws. You can be demanding and unreasonable, yet to me, these are simply facets of your spirit that I cherish. I love your smile, the sound of your laughter, how you complain. I even love the way you blush when you are in love with somebody else.

However, it is precisely because of this love of mine that I am profoundly, desperately glad you never knew about any of this.

You see, I'm no good.

You give an inch, and I crave a mile. I am selfish, possessive, and broken in so many ways. I am relieved you never had to meet this part of me. It is ugly, and I despise it. I despise the part of my heart that does not simply wish for your happiness, but desperately, selfishly wishes for your happiness to be with me.

So I will keep you here, in this quiet, secret place, lost within words I will never send. I will love you from a distance, which is the only way I know how to love without ruin.

Thank you, Till, for allowing me to love you, even unknowingly. You made all my days brighter. I am so glad to have met you, despite everything.

Goodbye.

.

Hi Phoebe, my little moon.

I am tucking this letter away for you, though I cannot be certain you will ever wish to read it. I am leaving you behind, and I know the shape of that hurt. It is an all consuming, aching thing. But you must trust me when I tell you that if there had been any other path, I would have taken it by your side.

I need you to know this, and to remember it on the days when the world feels cold and you believe no one loves you: you are wrong. I love you. More than anything. It was not a perfect love. It was not pretty, nor was it always gentle. But I loved you with everything I had, in my own clumsy, fractured way. I do not know if it was enough, but it was the entirety of what I could give.

I hope with all my soul that you grow up well and whole. I hope you gather friends around you like treasures, for life is awfully lonely without them. Promise me you will do the things that spark joy in you, even if they seem silly to others. You must be bold. Eat what you want, fight fiercely for what you believe in, and have the courage to apologize when you are wrong.

And when you fall in love–because you will, my bright girl–do not love like I did, from a distance and in the shadows. Love with your whole heart, openly and without fear. Let them see the brilliant, complicated, wonderful person you are. Do not hide your light for anyone.

Most of all, I hope you can forgive me. Not for leaving, I think you might understand that part one day, but for all the times I was silent when I should have spoken, for all the awkward hugs that were all I managed to give, for all the words that stuck in my throat because I did not know how to say them gently. Please understand, the deepest love is sometimes the quietest and littlest one.

My love will always stay by you, always.

.

When he takes out Phoebe’s collar, his hands are shaking so much he can barely do it. She looks at him strangely, in that sort of stare-not-stare they both do, and he already knows she is suspecting something.

He gives her an wobbly smile, ugly no doubt, and carefully offers her a bag provided by the rebel, where a few things he found himself thinking she might need were: her favorite toy, his letter, some pack of clothes she didn’t seem to mind much, a snack she liked.

Ivan carefully put it in her arms, and looked at her, both of his hands on her shoulders.

“Hey now,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Why do you look so scared, hm?”

Her brow furrowed, a perfect mirror of his own worry. “Because you do.”

The simple, direct truth of it stole his breath. “Ah,” he sighed, the sound ragged. “My perceptive little girl.”

He opened his mouth again, the three words he needed to say–I love you–too heavy and awkward to push out his throat. They’ve never come easily to him. Instead, they always get stuck somewhere behind his breastbone, a tangled, aching mess of feeling that never seems to find the right shape in the air. All that comes out is a shaky breath.

“There is… a woman,” he began, trying to find a way to explain this to a six-year old. “A kind woman. She’s going to look after you for a little while, alright?” He gestured weakly at the cold walls that had been their entire world. “She lives in a place… a safe place. With people who can give you a better life than this. A place with real sunlight. And trees you can actually touch. Other children to play with.”

He saw the moment she understood. Her eyes, wide and far too old for her small face, darted from his strained expression to the bag in her arms, then back again.

“So…” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “Are we going there?”

We.

Ivan couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, a slow, devastating negation.

“You are.” He simply said, the words flat and final.

Her face, which had been just confused before, crumpled. The careful control of a child trying to be brave shattered, and what was left was pure, unadulterated fear.

“No,” she whispered, the word small. Then, stronger, a desperate plea: “No! I’m not going without you.”

She shoved the bag back at him, the motion frantic. “I don’t want it! I don’t want to go!”

“Phoebe,” he breathed, her name a plea for understanding he knew would not come.

“You can’t make me!” Her voice climbed, tremulous with oncoming tears. She backed away, her small hands balling into fists at her sides.

He knelt again, bringing himself to her level. “I know it’s hard. I know. I am so sorry. But this is the only way I know how to keep you safe.”

“I don’t care!” she cried, the tears finally overflowing, tracing shiny paths down her cheeks. “I don’t care about safe! I care about you! I want to stay with you!”

She launched herself at him then, not in anger, but in a desperate, clinging hug, burying her face in his neck, like she used to do many times as a baby. Her small body shook with sobs. “Please don’t make me go. I’ll be good. I won’t complain or cry anymore, I promise.”

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly he feared he might hurt her. He pressed his lips to her hair, inhaling the scent of her one last time–flowery shampoo and the unique, sweet smell that was simply her.

“Oh, my little moon,” he whispered into her hair. “You are so good. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. This is not your fault. None of it. This is just me being selfish.”

The soft, triple-knock at the door was a sound he had been dreading, the sound of the end.

It was time.

Phoebe heard it, too, and her small arms tightened around his neck like a vice, her sobs intensifying into frantic, hiccupping pleas. "No, no, no, please!"

"I know, baby, I know," he murmured, the words broken against her hair. Ivan needed to be strong now. He had to get her through this door.

He tried to gently pry her loose, but she was anchored by terror, her small fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. "Look at me, Phoebe. Look at me," he said, his voice rough but firm. He managed to lean back, cupping her tear-streaked face in his hands. Her eyes were wide pools of panic and betrayal.

"I need you to be my brave girl," he whispered, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "Just for a minute. Can you do that for me? Can you be my brave, brave girl?"

She shook her head violently, fresh tears spilling over. "I can't! Don't make me!"

The door slid open with a quiet hiss. The rebel woman stood there, her expression a careful mask of neutrality and pity. Ivan's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it.

With a strength that felt like it was tearing his own soul in two, he gently but firmly unwound Phoebe's arms from his neck. She wailed, a sound of pure, gut-wrenching despair that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He stood, lifting her shaking, resisting body into his arms for the last time. He turned and, without letting himself think, without letting himself feel, he passed her into the woman's waiting arms.

She screamed in protest, reaching for him.

He took one last, agonizing look at her outstretched hands, her terrified face, memorizing every detail. Then, he took a single, staggering step back.

The door hissed shut and, not even five seconds later, the sounds of her wail ended abruptly. Ivan didn’t let himself ponder what the woman did to make her silent, he only hoped it was not too bad.

With trembling fists and a deep breath, he started to move.

.

They only noticed the absence of the two of them the next day. Not even twenty minutes later, he was already being led to Unsha’s office.

For the first time in his life, Ivan didn’t feel afraid. He walked like a man to his own execution, his soul already a step ahead of his body, hovering somewhere in the ether where Phoebe’s laughter might still echo. He expected the cold muzzle of a blaster against his temple, the short, brutal walk to the open field where so many other "examples" had been made.

Ivan was barely inside the office, his eyes registering the presence of both Unsha and his wife, when Unsha spoke, his voice deceptively calm.

“You were the one who planned that, correct?”

Ivan’s gaze flickered between them. There was no point in lying. Unsha’s questions were never questions, but traps waiting to be sprung. He had lived there his entire life. He knew the rules.

“Yes,” Ivan said, his own voice flat, stripped of all emotion. “It was me.”

The silence that followed was sharp, scratching at the room’s plush surfaces.

“So you understand that is an act of betrayal, correct?”

“Yes, I do.”

Unsha sighed, a theatrical sound of profound inconvenience, as if he’d just been informed of a minor financial loss. He turned slightly, addressing his wife. “Dear, what do you think?”

Ivan looked at her and her face with a carefully crafted mask of neutrality, more unnerving than any scowl. He didn't think he had ever seen her so utterly blank.

She tilted her head, her eyes assessing Ivan not as a person, but as a problem to be solved. “How about we let him go?”

Ivan’s eyes widened in pure, unguarded shock a fraction of a second before Unsha barked, “What?”

“Dear,” she continued, her voice cool and logical, “you and I both know he has nothing to offer, now that the product is gone. And he clearly doesn’t wish to be here.”

“Yes, but he needs to act as an example!” Unsha countered, slamming a hand on the desk. “If we let him go, everyone will think this is acceptable!”

“Hardly.” Her lips curved into a faint smile. “You see, Ivan has served us well for years. Let him have that much, at least. It’s not as if he will survive long out there. No food, no water, no currency. A face known to everyone.” She looked back at Ivan, and in her eyes, he saw not mercy, but a colder, more profound dismissal. “Let him escape this oh-so-awful place, in his eyes. The universe will finish the job for you, and your hands remain clean. It’s more elegant, don’t you think?”

Unsha stared at her, the fury in his eyes slowly banked by the chilling logic of her words. He grunted, waving a hand in disgusted acquiescence. “Fine. Get him out of my sight.”

She gestured to the guards, her movement elegant and final. “Take him to the eastern door.”

Ivan was led away, his mind reeling. He looked back at her, his expression stripped bare of any pretense, and for a fleeting moment, just as he passed through the threshold, he could have sworn her carefully constructed mask softened at the edges. It wasn't warmth, not quite. It was something older, fainter–a ghost of a farewell. A twisted, ugly tendril of something that might have been adoration, once.

As always with them, it was love, but it was wrong. It was the love that had caged him, and now it was the love that was casting him out to die. No food, no water, no shelter–just the clothes on his body, a few of his belongings that barely fit in a bag, and a face known across the cosmos as a rebellious pet–a perfect walking bounty.

A grim, weary determination settled in his bones, as the doors closed shut. He had lived out there once, long ago. He remembered the grit, the struggle, the cold. However, he thought, the word reverberating in the cold emptiness of his chest, I might as well try. It wasn't as if he had nothing left to lose. He had already given away everything that mattered, this was just the aftermath. And he had survived an aftermath before.

Thus, his story there ended the same way it started. Ivan had been bought on a whim, and on a whim, he was let go.

.

Realizing there was nothing left for him on that planet, Ivan sneaked out in a spaceship and fled into the void. His destination was irrelevant and his plans non-existent. Only two imperatives burned in his mind: find a weapon and secure enough supplies to survive long enough to form a real strategy.

He wanted to search for Phoebe, Till, and Mizi, but desire was a far cry from execution. The galaxy was vast. He knew his product had ended up at some rebel base, but finding one of them out in the open, scattered across random worlds, was an impossible task. And even if he found some random rebel who could lead him to one, how would he know which base held her? As for Till, he had no starting point at all. He could only cling to the frail hope that Till was with Mizi, safe somewhere.

As it turned out, the universe provided an answer sooner than expected. On the very planet where he’d ditched the ship, he discovered the fate of one of them. Tattered and trampled, plastered across the grimy floors of back alleys, was a wanted poster for the girl he once called a friend.

He snatched it up, his eyes widening at the image. The Mizi he remembered had bright eyes, a dazzling spirit, and long, lustrous hair. The girl in the poster had none of these. She looked hollowed out, a ghost haunting her own features. The word "WITCH" was scrawled beneath her picture, and Ivan scoffed.

A witch? This was the girl who used to stumble over her words when Sua merely smiled at her. The notion was absurd.

Taking a bite from a stolen fruit, he studied the poster. Since he had no leads and she was likely lost in her own hiding place, searching for her was as good a plan as any. A treacherous part of him hoped Till would be with her, but the profound defeat in Mizi’s eyes told him otherwise.

“Well, Mizi,” he murmured to the empty air, thinking of the girl who had leaned on him, who had looked at Sua with pure adoration, who complained about the food they were given daily. “It seems you don’t want to be found.” He crumpled the poster in his fist. “Too bad. I’m going to find you. Whatever it takes.”

And so, with no plan whatsoever, Ivan began his search. He drifted from planet to planet, scouring every alley and crevice for a trace of her, all while keeping an eye out for any sign of the rebellion. Four planets yielded nothing. On the fifth, a random choice, he combed the bustling metropolis until a sharp pang of hunger forced him to change course. He turned down a different street–and collided with someone.

Till would've called such an occasion fate, once upon a time, when he was infatuated with the pink-haired girl. That the universe brought them together.

The stranger he’d bumped into was slightly shorter, his face hidden behind a helmet. But there was something about the shape of his shoulders, a familiarity that hit Ivan like a wave. He’d rested his head on those shoulders more times than he could count, peeked at sketches and songs that had flowed from them. Ivan never thought he’d recognize Till just by his shoulders–but somehow, in this instant, he did. Perhaps it was the lifetime he had spent watching his back.

His breath hitched as he called out the name before he could stop himself, a mix of hope and fear clashing in his chest. The possibility of it being Till feeling like both a blessing and a curse.

“...Till?”

He hadn’t even seen his face, but he knew Till would look different. He seemed taller, his frame broader. A desperate, cowardly part of Ivan wished it wasn’t him–or that if it was, the man would never look up. He could still walk away, retreat back up the street before anything atrocious could happen. However, none of that could possibly happen, because he found himself unable to look away, as he was watching Till raise his hands, watching him put them around the helmet, watching him take it off slowly.

The first thing that appeared was his chin and them his hair that he though, dumbly, oh its shorter, and reveal the nose he had forgotten the shape of somehow and finally, finally show his widened eyes and–

“Hello,” Ivan managed, the word breathless. He was lost, utterly captivated by the task of memorizing every detail of Till’s face, as he noticed that nothing really had changed and it still felt like they were still kids running around in the grass. As if he had never stopped loving him–because he hadn’t.

“Ivan?” Till’s voice cracked slightly, surprised, caught somewhere between disbelief and recognition. It was thick with emotion, and Ivan couldn’t tell if it was wonder or something else.

Despite the fear, the doubt, the tangled mess knotted inside his heart, a smile bloomed on Ivan’s face. For now, he didn’t notice the scars on his neck or the haunted eyes, too busy being back to that day when he had been barely ten and Till the boy with eyes too bright. Falling irrevocably, desperately, hopelessly in love.

Fights and problems would come in due time. But for now, all Ivan could think was, I’m so glad I turned around.

Because, really, what if the choices had been different? What if he had turned another corner?

So, in that moment, he simply smiled until his cheeks ached, ignored the dumbfounded gaze of the man he loved, and mentally thanked every twist of fate that had, against all odds, let them find each other again.

Chapter Text

Seven years. An entire life.

That was what Ivan thought as he saw Till standing before him, a whole movie flickering behind his eyelids.

They both stopped opposite from each other and felt unexpectedly awkward. Neither knew what to say, yet neither could look away, which was stupid, because Ivan had fantasized about this moment so many times.

Most of his daydreams were the same: they would find each other, somehow, and Ivan would run to him, tackle him in an embrace, and never let go. Others, less kind, featured Till hitting him, listing every awful thing Ivan had ever done to him, finally unleashing all that pent-up anger upon the real thing. In some, Till didn’t even remember him at all. All ended the same way: with Ivan laughing, because he had missed Till so terribly much.

Real life, however, was often different. He opened his mouth to speak, but something in Till’s expression–the furrow of his brows, the slight part of his lips–stopped the words in his throat.

What’s the matter with you, Ivan thought. It’s just Till. Say something.

Once upon a time, he would have run to him without a second thought, thrown his arms around him, and buried his face in his shoulder, ignoring all complaints. But Ivan was stuck there, two feet away, just a little too far. Much as he wanted to be, he was not that boy anymore. With every breath he took, the years came rushing back to him, and he found himself paralyzed, as if there was some invisible line between them now, of unsaid words and years gone by, that he couldn't bring himself to cross. No surprise there, after all, he had always been a coward when it came to the silver-haired boy.

“You’re alive,” Till said first, ever the braver of the two. His voice was raspy, thick with disbelief, maybe even watery, if Ivan dared himself to believe it. The words felt like both everything and nothing at all.

It was something to hear Till speak after seven years. Memory could not quite compare to the real thing, in the end. It felt neither easy nor difficult. It was almost as if they had seen each other only yesterday. As if Ivan hadn’t spent the last years of his life obsessing over this very moment.

“So are you,” Ivan managed to reply, the nervous itch in his throat translating into the beginning of a choked laugh.

“Ivan,” Till said his name again (Ivan hadn’t realized how much he had missed the sound of his name in that voice. Ivan. Ivan. Ivan), taking a slight step closer, hands raised as if the name itself could bind Ivan to that spot. “...How?”

Ivan shrugged, as if being shot multiple times and left to die in the rain were a trivial matter. The unbothered persona so profoundly etched into him, it seemed, would never truly leave. “Unsha put too much money on me to let me die easily.”

Till moved closer then. Close enough that Ivan could see the telltale sheen of unshed tears in his eyes, close enough that the panic of proximity started to rise, his heartbeat going wild, whispering close close close. To focus on anything other than the way Till was looking at him and to prevent himself from doing something stupid, Ivan’s gaze dropped to the scar on Till’s neck, and he dumbly pointed to the one on his own arm, saying the first thing that came to mind–

“Oh. We are matching.”

For some reason, this made Till laugh–an ugly, pained sound–before he finally closed the distance and tackled Ivan in a hug so abrupt and desperate that Ivan nearly stumbled backward, only just managing to adjust his stance and hold the other man steady.

Ivan was at a complete loss, as it dawned on him what had just happened. Till was hugging him. This was a hug. A hug from Till.

Alright.

He stood there, stiff as a statue, his arms hovering awkwardly around the other without quite touching, until he felt Till’s hands clutch desperately at the back of his shirt, gripping as if he might vanish if he let go. Something in Ivan snapped, almost as an answer to that desperation, so he threw caution out of the window and finally buried his face in Till’s shoulder, his own arms wrapping around him tightly.

It was so different from any other embrace. Partly because they were pressing too close, enough for him to feel Till’s frantic heart, thud, thud, but also because this was Till. These were Till’s arms wrapped around him and Till’s face pressed against his shoulder and Till’s chest pressed to his own and Till–

Ivan heard the man take another short, desperate breath before gasping, his voice muffled by fabric, “You’re alive.”

Ivan held him tighter.

“I am,” he replied.

“You’re alive. I can’t fucking believe it,” Till said again, and Ivan could only hold on more tightly.

Till drew a sudden, ragged breath, a tremor passing through him that Ivan felt echoed in his own chest. A familiar, protective dread bloomed behind Ivan’s ribs–the certain, aching knowledge that Till was on the verge of tears. The thought was a physical pain, sharper than any wound, because they were here, finally together. This fragile peace was everything, and Ivan didn’t want it to shatter.

He pressed Till against himself as if he could physically fuse them, to crush the years of loneliness, the ghost of every unsaid word, the hollow space where Till should have been all this time. It was a futile attempt to convey everything lodged in his throat–the devastating I missed you, the reverent I’m so glad to see you, the terrifying, absolute I never want to be apart from you ever again. It was frustrating, in its own way, how Ivan could not bring himself to say any of it, hoping his actions alone could convey it.

For all the years that had passed, Ivan would never be the first to let go. So, naturally, it was Till who broke the embrace first. Slowly, reluctantly, his grip loosened. He didn’t pull away entirely, but shifted back just enough to look at Ivan’s face, his hands still fisted in Ivan’s shirt as if to anchor him. His eyes, wide and shock-bright, scanned Ivan’s features, tracing the lines that time had carved.

“You’re really here,” Till breathed, the statement sounding almost fearful.

“I’m really here,” Ivan echoed, his voice soft, his mind too busy cataloging every change in the man before him to form a more original thought.

Till’s gaze dropped to the scar on Ivan’s arm, then flicked back to his eyes. “Matching,” he repeated, his voice rough. A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something pained. “Some pair we are.”

“Some pair,” Ivan agreed. He gently pried one of Till’s hands from his shirt, not to push him away, but to hold it. Till’s fingers were calloused, warmer than his own. He laced their fingers together, a simple act that meant everything to him. Till’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. He just stared at their joined hands, his expression unreadable.

“You’re… not mad at me?” Ivan ventured.

Till looked at him, brows drawn together, a pained smile on his lips as if his body couldn’t decide which emotion to settle on. He squeezed Ivan’s hand. “Oh, I am livid.”

Ivan, for all his bravado, felt his heart stutter. He had asked, expecting the answer, but it still hurt just the same. Of course Till was angry. There was no way he wouldn’t be.

Assuming this was where their reunion would falter, Ivan began to pull away, despite every muscle in his body screaming in protest. But Till had other ideas. He pulled him closer.

“I am angry,” he continued, his voice a low, raw scrape. “You are a selfish, idiotic bastard, Ivan. But I’m so… I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

The last word was choked, watery. A single, hot tear finally escaped, tracking a clean line through the grime on Till’s cheek. He looked furious about it, swiping at it with his free hand. “Really, so glad.”

Ivan, still uncertain of his footing, looked dumbly at the scene for a heartbeat longer. Then, as he moved to hug Till again, the other already met him halfway. As Ivan’s arms encircled him, Till let his head fall forward, his chin coming to rest on Ivan’s shoulder. It was a perfect, weighted fit, as if the hollow of Ivan’s shoulder had been shaped for this very purpose. Then, in a gesture so tender it made Ivan’s breath catch, Till turned his head slightly and nuzzled his face against the side of Ivan’s neck, breathing in happily. The touch was warm and fond and everything he had ever wanted, that he felt his own eyes burn fiercely in response.

“Don’t do it again,” Till murmured, so small and quiet that Ivan thought he had imagined it. Then, a little more fiercely, “Don’t you ever fucking die on me again.”

A wet, broken sound that was half a laugh escaped Ivan. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He had no idea how much time passed as they stood there in the middle of nowhere, holding on to each other as if the very idea of letting go was unthinkable. It was strange, even a little absurd, but the warmth of Till’s body against his, his familiar scent, the brush of soft hair near his face made something inside Ivan loosen, like everything would be okay. Like all the pain, all the scars, didn’t matter anymore.

“Till,” he began softly, uncertain and afraid to break the fragile stillness, but needing to know where they stood now. “Are you–”

The rest of the question was swallowed by the sudden rush of sound. A few segyein passed close by, paying no attention to the two humans, but the noise was enough to make Ivan falter mid-sentence and for Till’s body to tense slightly in his arms.

With a low growl–one Ivan refused to interpret as disappointed, of all things–Till pulled back, though not completely. He caught Ivan’s left hand on his own and, without a word, began walking ahead, as Ivan could only marvel at the feeling of their fingers entwined, his heart tripping over itself as he followed.

“Come on. My motorcycle is nearby,” Till said over his shoulder, “I’m staying at a place that’s friendly to humans. We can talk there.”

Ivan nodded automatically, then remembered Till couldn’t see him.

“Yeah. Talk. Sounds… wonderful.”

After a few minutes, they stopped beside a sleek, black and red motorbike leaning against a rusted chain-link fence. It was not new, by any means, but it seemed to be well taken care of.

“Cool, right?” Till asked, smiling slightly to himself with something that could only be interpreted as pride. “I built it all on my own. Isaac and Dewey helped too, I guess.”

“Isaac and Dewey?” he prompted. It seemed a safe enough topic for now.

“Yeah, they are the rebels that took care of me. Don’t tell them I said that, but I owe them a lot,” he picked up the helmet that was on the seat and, “Here,” Till said, his voice still rough around the edges. He released Ivan’s hand–a loss Ivan felt acutely–and held it out, his expression unreadable. “Put this on.”

Ivan took it, his fingers brushing against Till’s. The simple touch sent a jolt up his arm. He fumbled with the strap, his usual grace deserting him completely. His mind was a chaotic mess, still reeling from the hug, the tears, the feeling of Till’s face nuzzled against his neck, and he had absolutely no idea how to even put the cursed thing on.

Till watched his clumsy attempts for a moment before letting out a short, exasperated sigh. “Ah, for–give it here.”

Before Ivan could process the command, Till had plucked the helmet from his hands. He stepped close, so close Ivan could see the individual silver lashes framing his eyes. Till rose slightly onto his toes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he lifted the helmet.

Ivan’s breath hitched.

He stood perfectly still, mesmerized, as Till carefully settled it onto his head. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed against Ivan’s jaw as he fastened the strap under his chin, his touch deft and sure.

“There,” Till muttered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the space between them. He gave the helmet a firm, final tap with the back of his index finger, then dropped back onto his heels. His eyes met Ivan’s for a fleeting second, and something passed briefly there, before he turned away.

Till swung a leg over the bike, the machine groaning in acceptance of his weight. He settled into the seat, kick-starting the engine with a practiced, powerful motion. Then, Till looked back over his shoulder, his silver hair catching the dim light. His expression was blank, unreadable, but his eyes held a silent, impatient question.

Well? they seemed to say. Are you getting on or not?

As if there was a reality where Ivan wouldn’t follow Till to the ends of the world.

Without a second of hesitation, Ivan moved forward, sliding onto the seat behind Till. The bike dipped with his weight. He hovered for a moment, his hands uncertain where to land, until Till reached back, grabbed his wrists, and firmly pulled Ivan’s arms around his waist.

“Hold on,” Till commanded, his voice barely audible over the engine’s growl. “Don’t you dare let go.”

Ivan needed no further encouragement. He tightened his hold, pressing his chest flush against Till’s back. As the bike pulled away, weaving into the flow of traffic, Ivan closed his eyes.

He was holding on. After seven years, he was finally, finally holding on, and he had absolutely no intention of ever letting go.

But… did Till even want that?

The question was a cold splash of reality, filling the cracks of his joy. Here he was, clinging to Till like a lifeline, but what right did he have? He had made the choice for both of them. He had looked at Till’s face, streaked with rain and something far more terrible, and had decided the boy’s future by himself.

He remembered it vividly, that last moment. It wasn't a hazy memory. It was etched into the back of his eyelids, playing on a loop during countless sleepless nights. The way Till’s eyes had widened, not with anger, but with a kind of shattered horror. And now, he had reappeared out of thin air, like nothing happened.

The warmth of Till's back against his chest began to feel like a brand of hypocrisy. The solid reality of him, alive and whole, was a miracle Ivan knew he didn't deserve. He had caused that pain. He was the reason for the tears he’d felt soaking into his shirt just moments ago. The embrace, the desperate clutch of Till’s hands–was it forgiveness, or was it just the shock of seeing a ghost? The initial, overwhelming relief that would inevitably curdle back into the rightful, justified anger Till had confessed to.

I am livid.

As he should be. Even Ivan was angry at himself.

Suddenly, he was glad for the helmet obscuring all and any reaction from him. He wanted to press closer, to melt into Till and disappear, to use this physical connection to erase the seven years of separation and the one moment that had caused it. But he also felt the urge to let go, to put respectful distance between them, to kneel and beg for forgiveness he knew he could never earn.

So, for now, he held on, but his grip was weak, because Ivan knew it couldn’t last. He memorized the feeling of the lean muscles of Till's stomach under his arms, the rhythm of his breathing, the way his body leaned into the curves of the road. He stored it all away, bracing for the moment when Till would inevitably push him away.

Eventually, they stopped right in front of an old building, almost outside the city. It was dark by the time they pulled into the little lot, beneath a bright lit sign advertising vacancy. Ivan merely blinked up at the white and purple lights, taking off the helmet and hopping off the motorbike. Till met him on their walk to reception, giving only a weak nod at the segyein there at the front, who didn’t pay them any mind, and went up the stairs to his room.

The place was small, but had everything one needed, if not more. A single bed, some equipment he supposed was a television, a small closet, and a bathroom attached. Ivan tightened the grip on his bag and sighed, turning in a circle to inspect the room.

Suddenly, the door clicked shut behind Till, sealing them in. The silence in the small room soon turned suffocating.

“Do you want to shower first?“ Till asked, his voice loud in the quiet.

Ivan knew that Till was tense now. The bravado from the alley had evaporated, leaving behind a nervous energy that vibrated in the space between them. The question was an offering, a way to create distance, to buy time.

“Sure,” Ivan answered, his voice carefully light, a practiced, easy smile gracing his lips. It was the same mask he’d worn for years, the one that said everything is fine, nothing bothers me.

Till visibly exhaled, a shuddering release of breath he seemed to have been holding for miles. He shuffled from one foot to the other, not moving to even take off his jacket until Ivan had headed for the bathroom.

Inside, Ivan locked the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. The smile dropped from his face like a stone. He could hear the faint sounds of Till moving on the other side–the creak of a floorboard, the soft thud of him probably sitting on the bed.

With his mind jumping from one atrocious option to another, Ivan at least tried to focus on the fact that Till was alive. That, at least, brought a smile to his lips.

Till is alive. Till is alive, he thought, giddy, as he undressed and finally locked eyes with his reflection, and of course, the tapestry of scars on his body, letting his expression freeze immediately. Absent-minded, he traced the lines there, as he had done many times before, and sighed, a heavy thing that seemed to have real weight on his body.

The water, when he turned it on, was cold. Ivan hoped it would wash away more than just the grime of the road. He hoped it could steady the frantic, guilty beat of his heart, wash away how filthy he felt all the time. He scrubbed at his skin until it was raw, but the guilt remained, a permanent stain. As it stands, he doubted it would ever leave.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his shoulders and hair dripping, the room was silent. Too silent. His eyes darted to the bed. Empty. The closet door was still closed, just as before.

A cold, sharp panic seized Ivan’s lungs. He’s gone. He left. He came to his senses and realized he couldn’t stand the sight of you. The thoughts came in a frantic, suffocating wave. Seven years of searching, and it had already ended. His heart hammered against his ribs, a trapped bird beating itself to death.

“Till?” he called out, his voice small with a fear he didn’t bother to hide.

Then, a sound came from beyond the window. A shuffle, followed by a low, familiar voice.

“Here.”

Ivan spun toward it, close to the bed. He crossed the room in two long strides, pushing the thin curtain aside. The window opened onto a small, flat section of the rooftop, accessible by a narrow ledge. And there, silhouetted against the hazy glow of the city’s light pollution, was Till.

He was sitting, knees drawn up, looking out at the city, empty and silent now. He must have felt Ivan’s gaze, because he turned his head. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but then he moved, shifting onto his knees and leaning toward the window.

A hand appeared, extended toward Ivan. Palm open.

Without a second thought, Ivan placed his hand in Till’s. The grip was firm, calloused, and real (he wouldn’t mind holding it forever). Till braced himself and pulled, helping Ivan navigate the awkward climb from the windowsill out onto the surface of the roof.

Once Ivan was standing beside him, Till released his hand and settled back into his previous spot, patting the space beside him in a silent command, one which Ivan obeyed.

Ivan’s eyes shifted to the man seated before him, just briefly, so Till failed to notice, but he felt his breath itch all the same. Till always seemed to define the world, somehow. Making the harsher lines, softer, and the colors, brighter.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

“What are you doing out here?” Ivan ventured, his voice confident in a way he didn’t truly feel.

“Nothing much. Just thinking, I guess,” Till replied, not looking at him.

“Right.”

A beat. Then, Till added, “Seven years, huh.”

“Yes, though it feels just like yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Till agreed, absentmindedly, before looking at him again, an unbearable look in his eyes, “Your hair is longer now.”

“Mm, it’s popular now.”

“Is it?”

Ivan nodded, not quite sure what to say.

Ivan thought about things to say to fill the silence, like this is some coincidence, right? and it's been a while and I've missed you so much, but settled on "How are you?" because that was really the one thing he wanted to know.

"Alright," Till said with a shrug, making Ivan feel kind of awful, because everything was so awkward. They had never been like this before. It reminded him of the time they both tried to run away and failed. However, in hindsight, Ivan realized they never really did talk that much–not about the complicated things, anyway–though it felt like it. As if everything that needed to be said had been said. “As alright as one can be after… well. And you?”

Ivan huffed, tried to manage something witty to say, to get rid of this tension, and failed, opting for being honest, for once. “Better, now that you are here.”

He heard Till’s breath hitch beside him, a sharp, pained sound.

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

Till offered a smile that looked more like a wince, and Ivan noticed, not for the first time, how deeply tired he looked. It was a weariness that sleep couldn't fix, a fatigue that had taken up permanent residence in the lines of his face, as if this was the only emotion he had been feeling for a long, long time. “I know you are not trying to be cruel, now I know, but, fuck, you can be so mean sometimes.”

“Am I being–” Ivan started.

“To just disappear for years and then come back and say something like that–”

“I didn’t have a choice–”

“–as if it’s that simple, as if you didn’t–”

“–I did it for you–”

“For me?” The words came from Till, a wounded, sad sound. He surged to his feet, pacing the narrow width of the rooftop as if he would go insane if not. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Any idea at all?”

He stopped, whirling to face Ivan, his eyes pained. “Do you know what it was like? Waking up, throat on fire, and the first thing I remember is you. You, letting go. And my first thought, my very first thought, wasn't ‘I’m alive.’ It was ‘I’m alive because Ivan decided to die for me.’”

Till’s voice cracked, but he pushed on. “And I had to live with it. I had to get up every single day and breathe and eat and fight, knowing that you died and I lived, not because I deserved it, no, but because you, a selfish fucking asshole decided it for me! I had to look at myself in the mirror and see the person worth your entire life, and I am not, Ivan. I am not worth that! I’m just… me!”

“Till–”

He raked a trembling hand through his silver hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “And the worst part… the most cruel, twisted part that I have never been able to get out of my head… you were smiling. When you let go. You were happy. You looked at me like it was all going to be okay, and then you were just gone.”

Till’s pacing stilled, his shoulders slumping as the anger began to bleed into a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. “For seven years, I saw it. Every night. I don’t dream, Ivan, I have a fucking rerun. I feel the rain, I see the blood, I feel your hand go limp in mine. I wake up clutching at nothing, screaming into a pillow because I couldn’t hold on. And you want to know the secret thought that haunted me, every single day? I thought it was my fault. That if I had been stronger, faster, better, you wouldn’t have had to make that choice. That I killed you as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger myself.”

He finally looked at Ivan, his eyes glistening, his voice dropping to a broken whisper, leaving a desperate, pleading ache. “So don’t you dare stand there and say you did it for me, because you didn’t. Hell, I don’t know why the fuck you decided to do that, but it wasn’t for me.”

Till must have looked at Ivan and seen something there, because he dragged a hand down his face, the fight draining out of him as suddenly as it had appeared. He let out a long, weary breath, sat down next to him again, looking at nothing, and said his next words so quietly they were nearly swallowed by the city’s hum.

“Fuck, this isn’t how I wanted this to go at all. Sorry. It’s just been really hard.”

“It’s alright,” Ivan said, and really, even if it hurt seeing Till getting mad at him, he still liked to see that fire in his eyes. To know the other man still had that determination. The last time he had seen him, back on the stage, there was nothing but defeat in his eyes. It was nice, even if the anger was directed at him. “You are right.”

“Never thought I would hear those words out of your mouth,” Till joked, a little smile appearing on his face that disappeared just as quickly.

He heard Till sigh loudly beside him, as if all the pain had come back tenfold, his gaze far, far away. “I don’t think I can ever forgive you for doing that.”

Ivan nodded weakly. “I know.”

“And you need to tell me why you did what you did. I like to think I deserve to know that much, at least.”

“I know,” Ivan said again, though he didn’t move to say anything. He only did when Till looked at him expectantly. “I just…,” he took a breath, gathering his courage. Till was right. He deserved to know at least part of the reason. However, admitting you feel unwanted is never easy. It’s one thing to have that in your head, and another to spit it out into the world and have it confirmed. “I just thought you wouldn’t care.”

Ivan heard Till suck in a breath. “What?”

He didn’t dare to look back at his face.

“I thought it wouldn’t affect you at all,” Ivan continued, before all the courage vanished or the hurt inside spread far too wide. He stared at his own hands, clenched in his lap, unable to bear the weight of the silence that followed, which was admittedly worse than the shouting. The truth, once spoken, felt small and pathetic, “because I am not important to you.”

After no answer came, Ivan risked a glance.

Till was not looking at him with anger, or even pity. He was staring as if Ivan had just spoken in a language he couldn't comprehend. His expression was one of pure, unadulterated shock, his brows drawn together, his lips slightly parted. The raw, weeping pain from his earlier outburst was momentarily eclipsed by pure confusion.

He blinked, slowly, as if trying to clear his vision. "You…" he started, then stopped, shaking his head. A short, disbelieving laugh, devoid of any humor, escaped him. "You really thought that?"

Ivan could only nod, his throat tight.

Till's gaze shifted from confusion to something else, something weary and deeply sad. "All this time," he murmured, more to himself than to Ivan. "All those years together, and you were carrying that around in your head?" He looked back at Ivan, his eyes searching his face.

Ivan could only smile sadly back.

“Let’s face it, Till, all this time–”

Till put his hand over Ivan’s mouth, while Ivan looked at him surprised, his smile frozen on his face.

“Stop. Don’t keep saying that,” Till said, looking at the street, as if looking at Ivan hurt. A second passed before Ivan noticed the water droplets falling from his face, and panic filled him. He did that. He made Till cry. “Ivan, until recently, I thought you were the one who disliked me.”

“What?” came the muffled voice from behind his hand. Then, he gently took it out and cradled it in his, absentmindedly doing soothing circles. To calm himself or Till, he didn’t know. “I could never hate you.”

“Yeah, now I know, but you had a fucking terrible way of showing it. I mean, you treated everyone nicely, while I was the one you punched and stole from. What else could I have thought?”

Ivan was, once again, lost. For his entire life, he had carefully built a castle on a ground he thought was steady. Till hating him, not caring for his presence and thinking he was expendable were solid foundations. But now everything was collapsing.

It was hard to get his head around such things.

The missed glances. How he came back once they were given a way out. The harsh words, how his presence was unwanted. It was hard to think all of that had been wrong.

Then, a silent, sad thought entered his head: was it just grief messing with Till’s head? The long forgotten memories being seen as fond instead of annoying, because of the time long passed?

He dared not to believe Till cared for him. It would be like handing a lit match while he was soaked in gasoline. It would destroy him if it was not true. He would rather have hate, than whatever this was.

“But… you never even drew me.” The admission came out defeated. It was such a simple thing, but it had always bothered him.

Till stared at him for a long moment, the tears tracking silent paths through the weariness on his face, seeming to be considering something.

"Wait here," Till said, his voice rough. He stood, the movement stiff, and went back inside the room without another glance.

Ivan sat frozen, the phantom feel of Till's hand in his own already cooling. The rooftop, the city's hum, the very air felt oppressing. He had thrown the core of his insecurity out into the open, the ultimate proof of his own perceived insignificance. In a world where Till captured everything that moved him on paper, Ivan’s absence felt like the most profound rejection.

He didn't have to wait long.

Till emerged once more, his expression unreadable. In his hands was a simple, black, hardbound notebook, its cover worn at the edges, its spine cracked from use. He walked back to Ivan, sat once more and thrust the notebook into his hands.

"Open it," Till commanded, his voice low.

So he did.

The first page was a messy, energetic sketch of a man with a scar on his face, laughing. Next, a study of some instruments. He flipped through more pages–some people he didn’t know gathered, some kind of tiny animal sunning itself on a windowsill. It was Till's world, documented in confident, sometimes frantic lines. Ivan’s heart sank with every turn of the page, the familiar ache of invisibility settling in. See? he thought. I was right.

He was about to hand it back, the confirmation a bitter pill, when he turned another page and froze.

It was him.

Not just a sketch, but a full-page, meticulously detailed portrait. It was his face from a few years ago.

It was him, but seen through a lens of care.

His breath hitched as he turned the page.

Another. This one was a quicker sketch, capturing him in mid-motion, a rare, unguarded laugh on his face. Ivan didn't even remember the moment.

Page after page, there he was. Him leaning against a wall, lost in thought. A close-up of his profile. His hands, clenched into fists. A full-body drawing of him walking away, the lines of his shoulders conveying a loneliness that Ivan had always felt but never shown. He was everywhere. Tucked between drawings of random things, in the margins of lyrics, taking up whole pages. Dozens of them. Some were rough, just a few lines capturing his essence, others were rendered with a painstaking, almost obsessive detail.

He finally looked up, his vision blurring. Till was watching him, his arms crossed, ears red and a defensive, vulnerable hunch to his shoulders.

“...Oh.”

Till rolled his eyes, taking the notebook back, as if he hadn’t just given his heart to him. Ivan felt, for some reason, the protective urge to keep holding into it, even though it wasn’t his to begin with.

“Yeah, oh,” he said, tone annoyed. Then, a little huff came from him. “Guess we are both idiots, huh.”

Ivan wanted to say something–thank you, maybe, or I’m sorry, or you have no idea what this means to me–but all of them felt wrong. Too small. So he just said, softly, “I didn’t know.”

Till smiled faintly. “You weren’t supposed to.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would’ve made fun of me,” he said, glancing at Ivan sideways. “You’d have laughed, called me obsessed, or–”

“I wouldn’t have.”

Till chuckled under his breath. “You absolutely would’ve.”

“Maybe.” Ivan smiled, despite the lump in his throat. “I never disliked you, Till.”

Quite the contrary, really, but Ivan would never voice that part aloud. Not when they were already treading on thin ice.

“I never disliked you either,” Till said, looking at him so fondly that it made his heart squeeze and make him fear for a second that he might cry.

Till fell back against the rooftop ledge, the energy leaving him once more, replaced by that soul-deep exhaustion. He looked at Ivan, his expression vulnerable. “Let’s start over… I–I just want to talk to you. I missed talking with you.”

Suddenly, all the ugly, nasty feelings evaporated from Ivan’s chest, leaving behind only a profound, aching tenderness.

“I missed talking with you, too,” Ivan whispered back, the words feeling inadequate for how much he ached for this moment. “More than anything.”

Till smiled at him, this time less sad, and for the first time in years, Ivan felt alive.

“So, what have you been up to?”

“I… I was at Unsha’s manor,” Ivan said, the words coming out almost detached. He stared out at the scenery, but he wasn't really seeing it. He was seeing halls devoid of color and warmth, the hum of medical equipment, the vague, shifting faces of veterinarians. The years there were not a linear narrative, but a blurred, painful smear of existence, at least until Phoebe came along. “Recovering. Mostly.”

“Must have been a nightmare.”

“It was,” Ivan agreed, the understatement vast enough to swallow them both. He could feel Till’s gaze on him, waiting for more. The silence stretched, but he wasn’t sure what to say, too terrified to even give a hint about Phoebe’s existence, to look him in the eyes and say: I’m a coward that brought another person in this mess, isn’t that incredible? Do you still want me around?

So he said nothing, letting the silence hang, a deliberate omission that felt like a lie. He focused on the mundane, the safe. “They had a good library. I read a lot.” It was true, in its way.

He saw Till glance at the scars visible on his arm, a question in his eyes, but he didn't voice it. Just as Ivan was hiding the truth of his recovery, Till was holding back the stories behind his own new collection of scars–the ones on his neck. They were two wounded creatures, circling each other, offering small, safe pieces of themselves while guarding the wounds that still bled.

It was a fragile, unspoken agreement. You don’t ask about my seven years, and I won’t ask about yours. At least, not for now.

“A library, huh?” Till said, a small, understanding smile touching his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess some things never change. You always did have your nose in a book when you thought no one was looking.”

The relief of him not prodding for answers was so potent it felt like weakness. Ivan managed a weak smile in return. “Someone had to be the smart one between us two.”

Till’s eyes, which had been so heavy with unshed tears, now narrowed with a flicker of mischief, a smile on his lips. “Excuse me? I am not the one that went around eating flowers.”

Ivan’s heart did a slow, painful squeeze in his chest. He wanted to live in that smile. To keep this going, this easy back-and-forth that felt more like home than anything ever had.

“I was curious. You can’t tell me you never wondered what they tasted like.”

“I can, actually, because I possess something called ‘common sense’,” Till retorted, the smile finally reaching his eyes, crinkling the corners. It was a sight so precious Ivan felt he might need to look away, lest it burn him.

Till briefly looked at the city sprawled under them, then up at him. Ivan was bowled over again by the force of his stare, by the way his heart stuttered, then settled. He desperately looked for anything else to look at, otherwise he feared he might pass out from whatever he was feeling, and settled on the notebook in Till's hands.

For a second, he entertained an idea, intently staring at the thing.

What if I showed him?

The thought was immediately followed by a wave of dread. What if Till didn't want them? What if he made fun of him? The fact that he had written at all, the sheer number of letters, the crossed-out lines of desperation and longing–what if Till could still read the ghost of those erased words? What if he read them and hated the neediness he found there? What if–

“Ivan, I can hear you thinking from here.”

Ivan looked at Till again, and there it was. Till's gentle eyes, his soft smile. The fear receded, soothed by that familiar sight.

That was stupid. Till would never do that. Not his Till.

“Let me get something,” he said, already moving before he could lose his nerve.

Till looked confused. “What? Get what?”

But Ivan was already bursting back inside, making a beeline for his bag, opening it and taking out a thick stack of paper, folded carefully so it wouldn’t tear. He sifted through the stack, setting the letters meant for Sua and Mizi aside, until he had an embarrassing stack left, all letters to Till.

He took a steadying breath, clutching them into his hands, and walked back out onto the rooftop.

Ivan stopped in front of him, the letters feeling like a live wire in his hands. He held them out, a silent offering.

“I wrote these for you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Till’s brow crinkled again, and Ivan ignored the urge to touch it.

“Don’t read them now,” Ivan went on. “Wait until later. When you’re by yourself.”

“Okay,” Till said finally, “I’ll wait.”

Ivan dumbly nodded, for no reason other than not knowing what else to do, and sat back down next to him. They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the resurfacing memories of all those times they spent together, side by side, when they were kids.

It hit him, with a peculiar pang, that they would never do that again, no matter how much he wanted to. Sure, they could still be around each other now, but it wouldn’t be the same. It would never be.

He took a deep breath and willed the thought away.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” Till asked tentatively, breaking the silence. “It’s been an awful long day.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to.” The thought of closing his eyes and being alone with the whirlwind in his head, the fear that this was all a dream, was unbearable.

“Same,” Till admitted quietly, his shoulders slumping a little. “Do you want to talk then?”

“I…I would like that.”

So, they talked.

They talked for what felt like hours, the sky going from a dark color to a more pastel one. They spoke of stupid, inconsequential things–the terrible taste of the food they were fed as children, the way a certain instructor always smelled weird, the time Till had tried to sing a note so high his voice had cracked for a week. They carefully skirted the edges of the chasm that was the last seven years, building a narrow bridge of shared memory across it, trying to recollect the person they used to be for the person the other had become.

Somehow, during the time, their bodies ended up flush together, knees touching, shoulders brushing, as if they could not be apart, having a mind of their own. Ivan felt a kind of comfort where he finally wouldn't think of anything, mind blank.

It had been a long time since he felt this kind of utter peace, where breathing came easy and everything was just peaceful.

It felt safe. It felt where he really belonged. It felt like home.

.

It was unclear how much time had passed since they had started catching up. At some point, their legs and backs began to ache, the sky became a little too bright, and both of their stomachs protested the long stretch without food. It had been a mutual decision that it was time for breakfast.

This landed them in an awkward position, staring at the meager supplies Till had in his bag–definitely more prepared for his journey than Ivan, who had been expelled with almost nothing.

On the small table lay a piece of meat Ivan didn’t recognize, bread that looked too old to be fresh but too new to have mold (which, in their world, made it edible), and a few brightly colored, unfamiliar fruits.

“We should probably start with the meat,” Till said, a considering look on his face. “Before it goes bad.”

Ivan agreed, but then asked, “Why don’t we just ask the segyein down there for breakfast? These kinds of establishments usually provide that, don’t they?”

“The last time I ate something they gave me, I passed out before I could utter another word,” Till laughed, a dark but genuine amusement in his eyes. “But if you want to try your luck, be my guest.”

Ivan considered the options in his head.

“It’s just that neither of us knows how to cook,” he pointed out.

“Who said I don’t?” Till countered, arching a brow.

Ivan looked at him–the same Till who had once tripped over his own feet because Mizi smiled at him, who could never maintain his anger for more than a few seconds–and said with absolute confidence, “No way you do.”

A slow, infuriatingly knowing smile spread across Till’s face. Without another word, he gathered the ingredients and walked over to the small, rudimentary kitchen area that Ivan hadn't even properly noticed.

All he could do was watch, utterly stupefied.

He watched as Till rinsed the strange fruit, his fingers deft and careful. He watched as he inspected the meat, his brow furrowed in concentration, before he lit the small stove with a practiced flick of his wrist and set a pan to heat. Till navigated the small space with an easy familiarity, his movements fluid where they used to be clumsy.

The seven years they had spent apart suddenly became devastatingly real.

While Ivan had been trapped in sterile rooms, barely surviving, Till had been out here… living. He had learned things. He had built a bike, made friends, and apparently, learned to cook.

A dangerous, swooping feeling tightened in Ivan’s chest, because he realized that this was a Till he didn’t know. There was time he would never get back.

Before he could retreat to his own dark thoughts, however, Till looked at him, smug to show off some fruits he had cut perfectly into animal shapes, and all of Ivan's dark thoughts were replaced by a profound, aching fondness that threatened to swallow him whole.

It was true that this was a side of Till he had never seen, never even dared to imagine, but it was utterly captivating. He didn’t know him yet, no, but he wanted to.

Till arched a brow at the stretched silence, catching Ivan’s unwavering stare. “What? Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Ivan breathed out, his voice softer than he intended. He quickly straightened up, scrambling for a shred of his usual composure. “I just didn’t take you for a cook.”

Till let out a short, amused huff, turning back to the pan. “I’m not that good, to be honest, just good enough to not die of food poisoning. You learn, or you don’t last long out here.” He deftly flipped the meat. “Dewey taught me the basics.”

The casual mention of that name, people who were part of Till’s world now, sent another quiet pang through Ivan. Before he could help himself, the words slipped out, softer than he intended, laced with a vulnerability he usually kept locked away. "You talk about them a lot."

“I owe them a lot. They kept me alive after… after.” The unspoken words–after you were gone–hung heavily in the air. “I had nowhere to go and no one, but they took care of me. Taught me. Gave me a place. A purpose.” He finally glanced over his shoulder, his expression fond. “It’s hard not to talk about people who literally saved your life.”

The statement was not an accusation, but it landed like one. The pang in Ivan’s chest sharpened into a keen, jealous ache. He wasn't just jealous of the time they had with Till, but of the role they played. They were the ones who had been there. They were the ones Till owed his survival to.

While Ivan, well, while Ivan messed up. He tends to do that.

“I see,” Ivan managed, the words feeling inadequate.

Till studied him for a long moment, his eyes searching Ivan’s face. He seemed to find something, or perhaps nothing, because he eventually gave a slow, single nod, going back to the task at hand.

A few minutes later, Till slid a plate onto the table in front of Ivan. The meat was seared a perfect golden brown, nestled beside the sliced, vibrant fruit. It was simple, but it was the most thoughtful meal anyone had ever made for him.

Needless to say, no one had ever cooked with him in mind before.

“Don’t look at it like that,” Till muttered, suddenly self-conscious as he sat down with his own plate. “It’s just food.”

But to Ivan, it was everything.

“Thank you,” he said, the words imbued with a weight that went far beyond gratitude for a meal.

Till just shrugged, with a faint pinkness touching the tips of his ears. “Just eat it before it gets cold.”

He nodded, and as Ivan took the first bite, the flavors bursting on his tongue, he knew with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty that this meal, simple and just barely scrambled together, would become his favorite from that day on.

“So,” Till started, pausing between bites, his tone deceptively casual. “What are you doing out here?”

Ivan stilled.

He didn't know how Till would react to him bringing Mizi up out of nowhere, after all, he must still be in love with her. If one thing about Till would never change, it was the stubborn, unwavering loyalty of his heart. Some loves were like bedrock, immutable and eternal. Ivan had always known his own place was in the shifting soil above it, never in the foundation.

Ivan swallowed, the motion taking a little longer than necessary, and clutched the fork in his hand, the metal biting into his palm as if he could physically hold back the inevitable.

“I’m… looking for Mizi,” he admitted, the words feeling like a confession of a crime.

Till’s reaction was not what he expected.

There was no sharp intake of breath, no flash of pain. Instead, a wry, almost weary smile touched Till’s lips. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he stared down at his plate.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “you too?”

Ivan didn’t share his happiness.

Of course. The unspoken words echoed in the small room, louder than if Till had shouted them. Of course you are. Of course that’s why you’re here. Ivan’s own foolish, secret hope–the chance of Till no longer loving her–shriveled and died in an instant. Silly Ivan, for thinking for even a moment that it could be any other way.

“There are some rumors going around about how someone matching her description was seen near here,” Till continued.

Ivan had simply stumbled into his trajectory, then. Wonderful.

“I see,” Ivan managed, his voice hollow.

A heavy silence fell between them, the earlier ease completely evaporated. Till pushed the food around his plate, his appetite seemingly gone.

For some reason, beside the sadness, Till seemed… guilty.

Whatever ugly feelings were festering inside Ivan’s chest could wait. He needed to ensure Till was alright, first.

“Does it bother you? Talking about her?” Ivan ventured carefully.

“It’s not that,” Till said, his gaze fixed on a distant point only he could see. “I like thinking about her, sometimes. Wondering what she’s doing. Where she is.”

“She’ll be doing well. That’s Mizi for you. She’s strong.”

“I know,” Till whispered, the words certain. “It’s just… you’ve seen the flyers and posters around, right?”

“The ones calling her a witch?”

Till nodded, finally looking at Ivan. “What do you think of it?”

“Me?” Ivan was taken aback by the direct question. “I think it’s ridiculous.”

A fraction of the tension seemed to ease from Till’s shoulders. “I know, right? But the public opinion of her is atrocious. I hear adults telling children the witch will get them if they misbehave. It’s that bad.”

Ivan frowned, a cold knot forming in his stomach.

“I get it, in a way,” Till continued, his voice low and pained. “What she did got a lot of people killed. The whole plan went up in flames. But I don’t think it was born from malice, you know? It’s just… urgh, it’s complicated. That’s why I need to find her. To talk to her and understand.” He let out a shaky breath. “I wish I could talk to her. All the time. Sometimes the need is… unbearable. She was my friend for so long, and I regret never truly trying to know her, just the idea of her. If I could just see her once… I’d just ask her if she’s happy. That’s all I want to know. Is she happy?”

“I understand,” Ivan said, and he meant it.

“You do?” Till looked at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Thinking back, I guess you two were rather close.”

“Not close,” Ivan corrected gently. Although he did consider her, alongside Sua, the closest people to him, it was not like they had ever talked about anything besides the mundane. “But I often found myself thinking about her these past few years. I wish I could talk to her, too.”

A small, genuine smile touched Till’s lips.

Ivan quirked an eyebrow. “You seem pleased.”

“I am,” Till admitted softly. “Everyone is so quick to vilify her now. I can’t even say her name without someone spitting ‘witch.’ It’s just… nice. To talk about her with someone who knew her. Someone part of her family, as well.”

“Family?” Ivan asked, turning his head as if the new angle would help him decipher the word’s meaning. He had seen it scattered through the books he’d once read about raising human children, back when he was first figuring out how to care for Phoebe, but it had never seemed relevant enough to pursue. It was a theoretical concept, belonging to a world he’d never been part of and never would.

Till’s eyes suddenly started to sparkle, the earlier gloom vanishing in an instant. He leaned forward, his expression alight with a sudden, earnest passion.

“Yeah, family. You know. Us. You, me, Mizi, Sua.” He gestured between them with his fork. “We endured a lot, and to be honest, I just think it was bearable because whatever we did, we did together.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, let me think… What have you associated the word with, until now?”

Ivan was silent for a long moment, his gaze turning inward as he sifted through the fragments of his life and the brief descriptions he had seen in books.

Family.

He thought about Phoebe, and unconditional love.

He thought about the hours he had spent writing letters, and how she had burst into his room, a whirlwind of joy, and spilled ink across every page. If he had been Unsha or his wife, he would have scolded her into oblivion. But he had done no such thing. He had laughed, a real, unforced sound, and chased her around the room, because the letters could always be rewritten. Her happiness was infinitely more important than any written word.

He thought about Mizi resting her head on his lap for so long he lost all feeling in his legs, and how he stayed perfectly still, because her peace was a rare and precious thing he would protect at any cost. That was what love looked like.

He thought about all those moments he felt upset over silly things–most of them concerning Till. He would spend hours bothering Sua with it, trying to articulate the tangled mess of his feelings in a way that made sense. He was allowed to be upset by small things around her, without being told that he was too sensitive or being judged.

He thought about how much he missed her, even the times she was so angry she would hit him mercilessly, because even her negative emotions were a form of brutal, honest care. How a part of him would always wait to see if she would pass through the door.

He thought about Till, who had always been willing to listen and willing to care, in his own kind, awkward way, without waiting for anything in return. How he had checked on him and made sure he was okay more than anyone else ever had.

In his mind, the concept of ‘family’ was finally being molded.

Family was where happiness, respect, and understanding came first. Where people made a conscious effort to see and accept each other. Family was not dismissive. You were allowed to feel, to be flawed, to be too much. You were allowed to exist, fully and completely.

A strange, warm sensation bloomed in Ivan’s chest, so potent it was almost painful. The pain came not just from finally being able to name what the four of them were, but from the staggering realization that Till, too, had placed him inside that circle like it was natural to do so. He was part of the "us."

He belonged.

“Yes, I guess we are a family.” Then, with more fear than he anticipated, Ivan added, “Do you want to look for her together?”

Despite his heart being so full he thought it would burst, a part of him was still braced for Till to get up and leave.

No such thing happened.

“Yeah,” Till said softly. “Together. I quite like the sound of that.”

As if the notion that someone could separate Ivan from Till existed. As if there were any reality where, when given the chance, Ivan wouldn’t pursue Till to the ends of the world. He was pretty sure that in every possible reconstruction of their lives, he’d fall, and fall and fall and keep falling and keep doing nothing, until it pushed him off the intended path and cancelled his plans because he was pulled back into his orbit again and again.

He couldn’t say any of that though, so he just settled with a nod and, “Together.”

Soon after, they were back on the motorcycle. Till, once again, picked up the helmet and gently put it on Ivan's head.

As Ivan slid onto the seat behind him, he didn't wait for Till to pull his arms into place. He wrapped them around Till’s waist of his own accord, his hold firm and certain, pressing his chest flush against the solid, familiar line of Till’s back. He felt Till’s brief, almost imperceptible sigh of relaxation, a silent acceptance of the new closeness.

Then they were moving, weaving through the sprawling, chaotic veins of the metropolis, the city became a blur of neon signs and towering spires, a cacophony of life that Ivan, in any other moment, would have found oppressive, but now just felt oddly relaxing.

For a few precious minutes, all of Ivan’s worries dissolved. There was only the rumble of the engine vibrating through his bones, a steady, comforting purr. The wind whipped at the strands of his hair that escaped the helmet, a cool counterpoint to the profound warmth radiating from Till’s body. He was surrounded by Till’s scent–a mix of engine grease, the crisp morning air, and something uniquely, fundamentally him that was the scent of home. He rested his helmeted head against Till’s shoulder blade, and there was only them, for a moment.

It was easy to be happy on days like this, he thought, the realization washing over him with a quiet, devastating clarity. When he was on a motorcycle headed nowhere in particular, with Till by his side.

The thought spiraled, becoming more surreal. How could it be that Till was there now? It seemed so impossible, so far-fetched. How was Till not just… gone? He remembered the rain, the blood, the feeling of his own grip failing. How hadn’t he died as a child, years ago? How had neither of them? How hadn’t they lost each other the day they nearly lost everything?

“Till,” Ivan said against the wind, so glad to be able to utter that name and be answered with recognition, “I missed you.”

For a moment, he thought the man didn’t hear him over the engine’s roar and the rushing air. But then, a calloused hand briefly covered his own where it rested on Till’s stomach, giving a single, firm squeeze before returning to the handlebars. The message was clear and sent a fresh wave of warmth through Ivan. I heard you. Me too.

They drove for hours, the cityscape eventually giving way to the ragged outskirts and then to the skeletal remains of an old industrial sector. They finally stopped in a clearing that served as a rebel camp, as Till explained, to fill up the motorcycle and hopefully gather more fuel for the trip.

A woman with a fierce gaze and long, vibrant black hair tied back in a practical braid greeted Till with a familiar nod. Ivan hung back, leaning against the motorcycle, saying nothing, knowing he was an outsider there and most likely unwelcome. He watched as they spoke, their conversation low and serious. Then the woman gestured directly at Ivan, her eyebrows raised in a clear question.

Till’s posture went rigid. Ivan saw the minute panic flash across his face–the widened eyes, the way he rubbed the back of his neck–before he started talking rapidly, his hands moving in gestures that were probably meant to be reassuring but came off as flustered. After a moment, the woman nodded slowly, casting another long, appraising look in Ivan’s direction before jerking her head toward somewhere. Till shot Ivan a look that was equal parts apology and warning before hurrying after her, disappearing momentarily.

Left alone, a restless curiosity prickled at Ivan. His eyes fell on the bag strapped to the back of the motorcycle, belonging to Till.

Was it nice to go through his things? Not really. Did Ivan care? No. Was Till going to be mad? Most certainly. A petty, defiant thought made a home in his head: Next time, he shouldn't just leave me alone, then.

Ivan’s fingers, almost of their own volition, unbuckled the strap and slipped inside. His hand found the familiar hardcover of the sketchbook. He pulled it out, his heart thumping with a thrill, and leaned back against the vehicle, opening it.

He skipped past the landscapes and the rebels, his eyes seeking and finding the pages that made his breath catch. The drawings of himself. Dozens of them. Each one felt like a testament to a regard he’d never dared to believe in. His thumb traced the lines of his own jaw, rendered with such careful attention.

So that’s how Till sees me.

Eventually, he flipped to the last page. This one was different. Two men were sketched there, one with light hair and a lazy smile, the other more serious, with a scar on his face. Dewey and Isaac, from Till’s stories, he guessed. They looked… happy. However, what stole the air from Ivan’s lungs were the children in front of them. Five of them, clustered around the men, their faces carefully drawn. His gaze immediately zeroed in on one in particular, a little farther than the others. One with familiar pink hair and a pair of eyes he was very familiar with. The kid looked like… looked like…

“Looks like you, right?”

Ivan’s heart launched into his throat. The sketchbook was flung into the air as he jolted upright, a gasp catching in his chest. Till, who had returned as silently as a ghost, snatched it effortlessly before it could hit the ground.

“Gotcha,” Till said, a shaky laugh escaping him. “You really shouldn’t be going through other people’s things if you’re not going to pay attention to your surroundings.”

Ivan's guilt and embarrassment were all but forgotten. “Those kids,” he said, his voice urgent, almost breathless. “Who are they?”

Till’s playful expression sobered. He tucked the sketchbook safely back into his bag and turned to the fuel pump, his movements deliberate. “I found them less than a year ago,” he began, his voice low. “In a museum dedicated to the last Alien Stage round.” He shook his head, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “They’re clones. Made from the most popular participants.”

A cold dread began to pool in Ivan’s stomach. “Then that kid…” he whispered, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Till confirmed, his voice heavy with resignation. “He’s a mix. Mizi’s gene and yours.”

For a moment, Ivan did his best to keep his face a perfect, blank slate, betraying nothing. Internally, however, his world tilted. He felt the breakfast they’d shared churn in his gut, a wave of nausea so potent he had to lock his knees to stay upright.

A child.

The violation was so profound it felt like a physical blow.

“The others, then?” Ivan managed to ask, his voice strained.

Till kept his focus on the fueling motorcycle, as if he couldn't bear to look at Ivan while he said it. “All mixes. My genes, Sua’s, Luka’s and Hyuna’s as well.”

“That’s…” Ivan started, searching for a word that could contain what he was feeling.

“Fucked up,” Till finished for him. He finally glanced at Ivan, most likely to study his reaction. “But they’re just kids, really. They didn’t ask for any of this.” His voice softened, taking on a protective edge. “They’re scared. I do what I can for them. Me, Isaac, Dewey. We keep them safe.”

“The segyein are monsters for doing this. For not even letting us rest in peace after everything. For turning our pain into whatever the hell this is.” Till continued, his words now laced with a quiet, burning anger. “But the kids have nothing to do with this. None of them asked for it.”

Ivan was no longer listening. All he could hear was a single, damning thought echoing over and over.

I did the same.

He was just as much a monster, because he would do it all again in a heartbeat too, and here Till was, completely unaware that he was standing next to the very thing he despised.

Till kept talking, and Ivan kept thinking, I did the same. I did the same. I did the same.

Soon enough, they got on the bike again, but Ivan didn’t put his hands around him this time. Not when he was feeling like a monster Till would be disgusted with. Not when Till would read Ivan’s letters sooner or later, and put two and two together, realizing what he had done to survive. Not when, whatever they had now, had a time limit to expire.

.

They didn't talk about Till's feelings for Mizi. The name hung in the air after it was initially spoken, almost like a ghost. Ivan didn't ask if the longing in Till's voice was for a friend or something more, and Till offered no clarification.

They didn't talk about the letters waiting to be seen. The thick stack of desperate ramblings sat in Till’s bag. Ivan wondered if Till had touched them in a moment he didn't see, if he was curious, or if he was saving them for a moment that might never come. Ivan didn't ask, and Till didn't mention them.

They didn't talk about each other's scars. Ivan's eyes would catch on Till's neck, and his fingers would unconsciously ghost over the corresponding roughness on his own arm. He saw the way Till’s gaze would sometimes linger on his, too. But no questions were asked.

Ivan never brought up Phoebe, and never would. Her name was a locked box in the deepest part of Ivan's soul, and he threw away the key every single moment.

They didn't talk about a lot of things.

For at least a week, they traveled, tiptoeing around what was being left unsaid, landing on safe topics they could talk about without worry, like Till's last mission, the last book Ivan read, or how they missed their time as children. Ivan, after all the years observing Till and dissecting every single action he did, could all but predict the subjects he didn't want to talk about.

Mizi and Sua, for one, always made him tense. It wasn't that he didn't like to talk about them, no, but Ivan noticed he was most at ease when Till himself brought them up, rather than Ivan throwing their names around out of nowhere.

Singing was another one he discovered rather quickly. It was an offhand comment, asking if he still liked to sing (because music and Till had always come hand in hand in Ivan’s head), and the prolonged silence before the uttered "not anymore" told Ivan all he needed to know. He prodded no further.

The scars on his neck, much like his first years in the rebel base, were dangerous territory, too. Ivan wanted to know desperately what made Till get that haunted look in his eyes, but he wanted even more to not hear the way his breath hitched or see the faraway look in his eyes, so he didn't prod either.

However, as much as Till was trying to pay more attention to Ivan now, for some unknown reason (he was still reeling from the fact Till had asked him what his favorite food was, or about his life before the garden–he never thought the boy would ever care), they still hadn't skirted the issues of what Ivan didn't want to talk about, which always ended with him changing the subject with a lame attempt that Till all but accepted.

As everything stood, though, they were alright.

“Is a double bed alright with you?”

He heard the question coming from Till, as he left his thoughts and glanced at their joined hands. This was another thing that was happening. For some reason, Till had gotten really, really touchy with him. Always holding his hand, patting his head, or hugging him like it was natural. Ivan, of course, would never complain, but it made him feel on edge just as much as it made him feel comfortable.

“Yes, it’s alright.”

With a nod, Till kept talking with the surprisingly human receptionist at a run-down hotel they found to spend the night.

When they were led to the room, he quickly noticed it was slightly bigger than the last, with a small outside patio where a chair and table sat, seemingly not cleaned for years. He sat there anyway, staring out at nothing, as he ignored the sounds of the shower running and the one using it.

It still made him giddy, thinking Till was here with him, that he had never left. However, it was hard not to have heavy feelings accompanying the joy. Maybe that was Ivan's life, he guessed, as he watched some birds flying somewhere. He could never be fully content, not for long, anyway. There was always going to be some negative feeling following him around, adding a weight to an otherwise completely mundane situation.

Suddenly, he felt something cold on the side of his cheek–a cup with cold water–right as Till asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“Aw, is Till being nice to little old me?” he teased, which only earned an eye-roll from the boy next to him.

“I just didn't want you passing out from dehydration. I don't think I saw you drink anything today.”

“You always say the nicest things.”

“Don't ignore my question.”

Ivan smiled a little at their familiar bickering, as he looked at the scenery. Everything still felt so surreal. He was still waiting for the time he would wake up and be back in that awful manor where warmth never found him. A part of him even wanted it, sometimes, in a desperate kind of way. It was suffocating, but it was also predictable. He felt like, for all his faults, he belonged there, rather than here, with no real use for Till, just waiting until he met Mizi again and noticed that Ivan wasn't good company.

“Epharshel, Unsha’s planet, didn't have stars, you know,” he tentatively said, “Or anything else, really. Something about the atmosphere blocking all the light from afar.”

Ivan had always liked them. There was something comforting about knowing that, no matter what, they would always be there, pretty and shining in the sky. It made the world feel less lonely, in a way. He still remembered feeling happy when he was growing up fast, because being taller meant he would be a little bit closer to them than others.

It wasn't until he returned to the manor, with that empty sky, that he noticed his fate had always been sealed from the moment he was born. An empty sky, an equally empty boy.

“I take it you like it here, then?” Till asked, hovering near him and looking at him like whatever he saw in Ivan was more interesting than the stars up there.

“Hmm, maybe? I’m not sure,” Ivan ventured. “I like the stars, but sometimes, I hate them a lot, too. They are treacherous little things.”

They appeared when convenient, showed themselves just a little too much so that you started to yearn for them, but in the moment you got accustomed to their presence, knowing that they would be there the next time night came for sure, they went away, due to clouds or any other reason. Gone, just like that.

He said as much to Till.

“That’s kind of sad.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Till put his hand on his neck, embarrassed, “I always thought it was nice when you talked about the stars. I know it sounds dumb, since they are inanimate and all, but I thought they would be happy to know there was someone admiring them, since most of us take them for granted, you know.”

Ivan’s heart stopped. Something about the way Till said he found something Ivan said nice made him want to transform into a pile of goo.

He let out a soft, breathy sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Since when did you become such a sweet-talker?"

"Since I had to listen to a mopey idiot talk about stars for five minutes straight," Till retorted, but there was no bite to it (ignoring the Hey, you were the one that came to bother me!). "We should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long ride. It will take a while until we find somewhere to rest."

Ivan took a long, final drink of the water, the cold a pleasant shock down his throat. "Alright," he conceded, standing up. The legs of his chair scraping harshly against the concrete of the patio, before he too, moved to shower and finally rest.

As one might expect, though, sleeping beside the person you have been in love with for the entirety of your life makes one nervous. It didn't matter that they were in separate beds, Ivan was still hyper-aware of the man on the other side of the room.

He held his breath, kept his eyes shut, laying flat on his back, and dared himself not to look. Unfortunately, he was a weak, weak man, and the voice in his head saying he should just let go of Till already, because he was bound to leave him one way or another, lost once again. So he turned to his side, and looked, looked and looked.

He looked at the curve of his nose, of his jaw. He looked at the way his breath came easily, his chest falling and rising. He looked at the short hair that suited him surprisingly well, and wished he could touch it more than just the few times he could shove under the excuse of an accident.

He looked enough to notice how his quiet breaths started to become noises of distress, to see him rustling from one side to another, as if fighting with something, waiting to get away. Ivan rolled over so his back was facing Till when the man let out a short cry, muffled by the blankets but easily heard in the quiet room, his own stomach clenching in answer to Till's distress.

Ivan could have woken Till up, sure, but then what? Would the man even want to see Ivan in that state? What good would he be, anyway? It wasn't like he could comfort anyone. His hugs were messy, his words even more so. He was not fit for this.

Mizi would have been more suited for this. Sua, too.

Ivan suddenly, once more, regretted being the one at his side. He always ended up being of no use at all, in the end.

Eventually, he could hear Till gasping for air and the bed creaking, as if he had moved abruptly. Most likely awake, now. Till was heaving in the air like a drowning man, choking on it, just standing there, breathing. Then, as Till got up, Ivan lay very still, letting Till's eyes wander over his sleeping form before the man put his hand tentatively on top of his heart, letting out a sigh of relief, and heading to the door to the balcony, leaving Ivan with a not-good, very bad realization.

The nightmare was most likely about him, right? There was no other excuse for why he would check if he was still alive, if not.

The guilt was a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs. He stared into the darkness, the imagined image of Till's panicked, gasping form seared behind his eyelids. He must have dreamed about him dying. It was a disgusting feeling to know that he was being the source of Till's suffering even in his sleep.

This is what I do, Ivan thought, the realization a bitter poison in his veins. I taint everything. Even his dreams.

And the worst part? He couldn't even bring himself to go out there and try to fix it, somehow, because he would just make it worse, he knew it.

So he did the only thing he seemed to be good at: nothing. He regulated his breathing, forcing it into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep as he lay there and bore the weight of this new knowledge. He would let Till have his space, let him find a moment of peace away from the nightmare, away from him.

“Hello. Is Isaac there?”

The words were almost drowned out, but Ivan could hear Till all the same. He was most likely talking to the man on that device he had shown him not too long ago, the one he was given in case of an emergency.

There was a reply Ivan could not hear, and then Till was talking, too softly for him to hear anything else. Tentatively, Ivan dared a glance, and noticed the man shaking out there, sitting on the chair Ivan was previously occupying, wrapping an arm around his chest as he clutched the communicator to his ear and spoke and cried and listened to whatever was being said.

Till looked, for the first time, like that boy Ivan once knew. All teary-eyed and shaky, skin sickly from sweat, looking unsure.

He should have looked away. It was a private moment. Till had sought solitude for this. But Ivan was rooted, watching as Till nodded at something the unheard voice said, a fresh wave of tears following. He watched him wipe his tears with the back of his hand, a gesture so childishly helpless it made Ivan’s chest ache.

It took a while to come back inside, no longer crying but still shaken up. Ivan lay very still, hating himself for, well, everything. For the fact he was the one that caused it, for years maybe, and for the fact he could do nothing to soothe the other boy.

And then, something he hadn't imagined happening even in his wildest dreams, happened.

The mattress dipped with a weight that was both foreign and achingly familiar. Ivan lay utterly still, the pretense of sleep shattered the moment Till's knee brushed against his leg. He looked down in alarm at the crown of Till's head. The room was dark, but he could feel the tremors still wracking Till's body, could smell the night air and salt of dried tears on him.

"Don't be weird about this," Till muttered.

Then, Till shifted, burrowing closer. He turned his head and pressed his ear directly against Ivan's chest, his entire body curling into Ivan's side as one hand fisted tightly in the fabric of Ivan's shirt. The contact was so sudden, it stole the breath from Ivan's lungs. He could feel the cool tip of Till's nose through the thin fabric, the dampness of his hair against his chin.

Ivan’s heart, which had been a frantic, guilty drum against his ribs, now seemed to forget how to beat altogether before slamming into a frantic, panicked rhythm.

He felt Till’s body, which had been tense with residual distress, suddenly loosen. A soft, wet huff of air escaped him, a sound that was part sigh, part laugh.

"Your heart is going crazy," Till murmured, the words muffled against Ivan's chest. There was a faint, undeniable thread of amusement in his exhausted voice.

Ivan’s mind went blank. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed and finally gave up.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if moving through water, Ivan lifted his arm. He let it hover for a second before letting it rest, his hand coming to settle between Till's shoulder blades, while the other he dared to place above his hair, caressing it the same way he had done many times to Phoebe.

His touch was feather-light, a tentative imitation of the comfort he'd seen others give but never truly believed himself capable of offering. He expected Till to flinch, to pull away in disgust, but he didn't. Instead, a full-body shudder ran through him, as he pressed his ear harder against Ivan's chest, inhaling contentedly.

A broken, wet sound escaped Till, half a sob, half a word that got lost in the fabric of Ivan's shirt. “Sorry about this. I just had a nightmare, and… yeah."

His thumb began to move of its own volition, stroking slow, steady circles on Till's scalp, while his other hand pressed a firm, grounding pressure against his back.

"It's alright," Ivan whispered, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.

"You were… and I couldn't…"

Once upon a time, Ivan would have been over the moon at having this kind of effect on Till. Being stuck in the boy's mind permanently, even in this atrocious way. However, now it didn't spark the dark satisfaction he might have once felt.

"We are alright. We got out," Ivan murmured, his voice low and sure. "We're here. In a hotel falling apart. With a dirty balcony." He felt Till take a ragged, deliberate breath. "You're stuck with me, since you practically kidnapped me, remember?"

Till let out another shaky huff, this one closer to a real laugh. "Unfortunately," he mumbled, but he was relaxing by degrees, the rigid tension slowly melting under the steady rhythm of Ivan's hand in his hair and the thunderous, living beat of his heart. “Can I ask you something?”

“Till? Asking for permission first? Am I not talking with a clone?” Ivan tried to joke.

“Shut up,” Till said, with no bite. “Feel free to not answer if you want.”

“I will answer anything you ask of me,” he said, hating a little bit how sincere it sounded. Stupid man with stupid pretty eyes and stupid warmth, turning his brain into mush.

“That’s a dangerous declaration,” Till said, before his tone turned more somber, “What… What does dying feel like?”

Ivan stilled.

He knew what Till wanted to hear. That it didn’t hurt. That he didn’t regret it. Anything to help him sleep at night, most likely.

Unfortunately, Ivan couldn't say any of that. It would sound too much like a lie, even to himself.

“Well, I was afraid, though I guess you had guessed that much,” he started, trying to find a good way to articulate what he wanted to say. “To be honest, up until that point, even though I knew it couldn't come to be, I dreamed of a happy ending, I think,” he started to play with Till's hair, “but as expected, it ended up in a tragedy.”

“And it hurt. The gunshots… they really hurt. It wasn’t clean or quick. It was just… pain.” Ivan’s fingers stilled in Till’s hair for a moment, then resumed their slow, rhythmic motion, as if he could soothe the harsh truth away. “I regretted it. Not the act itself, but… everything that led to it. I saw it all so clearly, at that moment.”

His voice grew quieter, turning inward. “But then… my final moment. I liked it.”

Till shifted, lifting his head just enough to look at Ivan’s shadowed face. “Why?” he breathed, his voice thick with confusion.

“I thought about Sua,” Ivan said, “And I didn't feel so alone or scared anymore. All the courage I managed to gather in that moment was thanks to her, I think.”

“I see.” Till murmured, mostly likely because he didn't know what else to say. Everything would surely just feel pathetic and insufficient.

“What about you?” Ivan ventured, testing the waters. Till looked up at him expectantly, and he used his hand that was previously caressing his hair to touch his neck gently. Almost feather-light.

The reaction was immediate. Till went rigid against him, and Ivan cursed his own eagerness for more. He had pushed too far, too fast. He was ready to backtrack, to murmur something about sleep and forget this entire line of questioning, but then Till spoke, his voice a raw, shame-laced thing in the dark.

“I lost in the next round. The wounds… most of them are from being shot, then.” A harsh, shaky inhale. “Sorry. You did all of that, and it wasn’t worth it at all in the end.”

“Nonsense, Till,” Ivan said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. He tightened his arm around the man’s shoulders. “I’m glad you tried. That is enough for me.”

“Yeah?” Till’s laugh was a broken, wet sound. “Because ‘trying’ did no good at all.”

“Hey,” Ivan murmured, his hand finding its way back to Till’s hair, a steady touch. “That didn’t matter. Not to me.”

“Why?” The word came almost like a plea, a demand for a logic that could dismantle the all-encompassing guilt he felt.

Ivan chose his next words with the care of a man defusing a bomb, because they were important. “Up until that point, you had this… look in your eyes. Like you were already dead. Like whatever they did to you, you would just accept it because you’d given up.” His voice dropped, softened by a painful sincerity. “And I hated it. So I’m glad you tried, that you fought just a little more, even if it didn’t work out in the end. I’m proud of you.”

Suddenly, a ragged, choked sob tore from Till’s throat, followed by another, until he was shaking with the force of it, his face pressed hard into Ivan’s chest as if to stifle the sound. Ivan said nothing, just held him, with his hand as a constant, rhythmic pressure on Till’s head until the sobs subsided into hitching, wet sniffs.

In the trembling quiet that followed, Till’s voice was barely a whisper. “Most of the scars are from that moment but,” he hesitated, not sure if he wanted to share this or not. “Some were self-inflicted.”

Ivan’s breath hitched, a sharp, almost imperceptible intake of air. His fingers stilled in Till’s hair for a single, heart-stopping second before resuming their gentle motion, slower now, more deliberate.

“I see,” Ivan said, his voice dangerously soft. “Do you still…?”

“No.” He could feel Till shaking his head against his chest, a firm, definite motion. “I’m… a totally different person now, I think. Really, those last few years… it was like somebody else was in my body, and I was just a few seconds behind, watching.”

“Are you?” Ivan asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Different?”

“Yes? No?” Till’s answer was a soft, confused sigh. “I’m happier now. I found a purpose. I can talk to people properly. Not being able to sing… it doesn’t feel like the end of the world anymore. I smile more.” He paused, his next words muffled by Ivan’s shirt. “Sometimes, that Till feels like a completely different person but… sometimes I am much the same as I was back then. Like now.”

“Do you hate it, then?” Ivan ventured, his hand pausing at the crown of Till’s head. “That part of you that still feels the same?”

“Not really,” Till said, and there was a surprising note of peace in his admission. “I’ve come to accept that it’s all me. The messy parts, the not-so-messy ones. For a while, it bothered me, the inconsistency. How I was fine one day and a wreck on the other. But treating that part of myself harshly never amounted to anything good. It comes and goes, like a tide. And I’ve learned to be gentle with it when it arrives. I think… I think it deserves that much.”

“It does,” Ivan murmured, suppressing the urge to say, I think all parts of you are lovely.

He felt Till relax completely then, a final, lingering tension dissolving into the quiet of the room. They lay in silence for a long while, the only sounds their synchronized breathing.

“Ivan?” Till’s voice was drowsy, slurred with impending sleep.

“Mhm?”

“Tomorrow we should go to that store that sells desserts. Share one.”

“Why?” Ivan asked, his own consciousness fraying at the edges.

“Because you like them.”

Almost immediately after, Till’s breathing evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep, as Ivan's heart threatened to jump out of his chest. He turned to the man with an apathetic smile on his face.

“You know,” Ivan murmured into the quiet, his voice a hushed, adoring thing, “if you keep saying things like that, I might start to get the idea that you want my company… We can’t have that, now can we?”

The only answer was Till’s steady breathing. Overcome with a tenderness so vast it felt like it would consume him, Ivan leaned in and stole a kiss, soft and fleeting, from Till’s temple. “The things you do to me. I swear,” he whispered, before sleep finally claimed him, too.

.

Ivan woke to the pale, grey light of morning filtering into the room. His first conscious sensation was not sight or sound, but touch. Till was wrapped around him like a vine, one arm thrown possessively across his chest, a leg hooked over his, his face buried in the space between Ivan’s shoulder and neck. He was holding on as if he expected Ivan to be stolen away by the dawn.

As much as Ivan wanted to stay suspended in that perfect warmth forever, a more pressing physical need was making itself known. He needed to get up, otherwise, he feared he would never be able to walk again. Gently, he tried to extricate himself, giving Till a soft nudge.

“Till,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep. “I need to get up for a minute.”

The arm around him tightened. “I can’t hear you,” Till’s voice was a petulant, sleep-muffled grumble against his skin. “I’m asleep.”

A fond smile tugged at Ivan’s lips. “You’re not asleep, you’re talking to me–”

Till responded by emitting a loud, deliberate, and very obviously fake snore.

Ivan’s sleepy brain, still foggy and unguarded, reacted on instinct. His hand came up to card gently through Till’s messy hair. “Lazy,” he ventured, his voice dripping with a tenderness he wouldn’t have allowed himself if fully awake.

The snoring stopped abruptly. "I heard that."

Ivan’s smile widened. "I thought you were asleep?"

The only response was a disgruntled huff, but Till’s hold loosened just enough for Ivan to slip away. As he padded towards the bathroom, he glanced back at the bed. Till had already curled into the space where he’d been lying, chasing the residual warmth, a grumpy frown on his face, before the man tentatively looked up at him.

And laughed.

Hard.

It wasn't a chuckle or a snicker. It was a full-bodied, breathless laugh that made Till's shoulders shake and his eyes squeeze shut. He clutched at the blanket, gasping for air as if Ivan had just told the greatest joke ever.

Ivan froze, completely bewildered. A warm flush of self-consciousness crept up his neck. Had he said something? Done something? He offered a weak, confused smile. "What is it?"

This only sent Till into another helpless fit of giggles. He waved a dismissive hand, unable to form words.

Shaking his head in amused confusion, Ivan finally turned and finished his journey to the bathroom. He flicked on the light, the harsh fluorescent glare making him wince.

And then he saw it.

“You used to have more dignity,” Ivan said to himself, glaring at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, at the wild tangle of hair around his face and neck. “Anyone would laugh if they looked at your stupid hair in the morning.”

.

Ivan took a bite of his own cake. He was not sure what the ingredients were, but it looked pretty, and most importantly, very sweet, so he had chosen it without a second thought. He immediately hummed contentedly, as if it was the best thing he had ever eaten in his life. He was about to say as much when he noticed Till staring at his plate, his own empty, since he didn’t like sweets much.

An idea formed in Ivan’s head.

“Would you like to try it?”

Till considered for a moment, then nodded. Without a second thought, Ivan broke off a piece of the flaky crust and a portion of the soft filling, and held it out across the small table. Till bit into it without a glance, and immediately made the most pained face Ivan had ever seen on him (except for the one–he was not going there).

"It's awful, right?" Ivan asked, a chuckle already bubbling in his chest as he watched Till struggle to process the taste.

Till finally managed to swallow, shuddering slightly. He grabbed his water glass and took a long, desperate gulp. When he surfaced, his expression was one of pure, unadulterated betrayal. "I'm so glad you agree this is the worst thing ever," he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I thought I was going to have to fight with you over your terrible taste."

“It’s not that bad,” he argued.

“You probably think that because you’ve always had a sweet tooth.” Then he added, almost wistfully, “You and Mizi.”

Ivan’s chuckle died in his throat, before he shrugged, faking nonchalance. “Maybe you just have an underdeveloped palate.”

A familiar, acidic jealousy began to curl in his gut, and he immediately felt sick with himself. How dare you? a voice, cold and sharp, hissed in his mind. He has nightmares because of you. You don't get to feel jealous. You don't get to want this.

The logic was irrefutable, a punishment he deserved. However, it didn't stop the feeling. It only made it worse, layering self-loathing on top of the bitter envy.

They shared some words, but the cheerful clatter of the dessert shop suddenly felt oppressive to him, the bright lights too harsh.

“Can you pay? I think I need to stretch my legs a bit,” Ivan said abruptly, smiling the only way he knew how: fake. He just needed to get out, to breathe, to wrestle the ugly thing coiling inside him back into its cage.

“Sure,” Till said, looking at him strangely, before most likely deciding not to pry. “Don’t go too far away.”

Ivan nodded, striding out of the shop and into the cool, metallic-tasting air of the city street, trying to rein in his ugly, shallow feelings. After a few minutes of deep breaths, the sharpest edge of the panic subsided, leaving behind a dull, heavy shame. He couldn’t believe that after all these years, he still felt this way about Mizi.

He truly was a shameful human being.

Steeling himself, he gathered enough courage to turn and go back inside, however, he abruptly stopped, his gaze snagging on the scene by the counter. Till wasn't alone. A girl stood before him, her posture speaking of a practiced delicacy. The slender, metallic collar around her neck gleamed under the shop lights–a pet human, undoubtedly waiting for her owner. And she was smiling at Till, a small, shy, but utterly genuine smile. And Till… Till was looking up at her, a faint, polite smile of his own gracing his lips as he listened to whatever she was saying.

Ivan’s feet suddenly felt as if they were glued to the floor, each one weighing twice what it should. The air left his lungs in a silent, painful rush.

The realization was a physical blow, cold and absolute.

Even if Mizi wasn’t in the picture, Till would never, ever love him, would he? Whatever they had going on now was most likely built on top of guilt. It was a shelter for his trauma, not a home for his love.

The future unfolded before his eyes with cruel clarity. Someday, Till would find someone. A nice girl, probably a kind rebel with fire in her soul and no blood on her hands. And he would look at her with that same open, unguarded expression. And Ivan would accept it, because that’s what he did.

He was so lost in the desolate landscape of this future that he didn't notice the girl walking away and Till coming toward where he was, until the man was standing right in front of him.

"Hey," Till said, and the smile he gave Ivan was easy, unburdened. Like the last five minutes hadn't just dismantled Ivan's entire world. "Sorry, that took a second."

Ivan’s throat was too tight to speak. He could only manage a stiff nod, as awful, possessive thoughts, ugly and unworthy, coiled in his chest.

But then Till held out a little white ribbon. "Here."

Ivan stared at it, uncomprehending.

Till explained, his cheeks flushing just a little. "I saw she had some of these in her hair. It reminded me of you. You're always messing with your hair when it falls in your face, so I asked if she could let me have one."

All the awful, jealous thoughts curdled into a thick, choking shame and cold self-hatred. Here was Till, in the middle of a simple conversation, thinking of him. He had seen a simple object and his first thought had been, Ivan would like that. And Ivan’s first thought had been poison.

"Thank you," he forced out, his voice gravelly. He looked from the gift in his hand to Till's face, and felt like the worst kind of monster. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve him.

After that, all attempts at conversation were cut short, because Ivan was too preoccupied thinking how nice it would be if he was literally anyone else. Someone a little more gentle. Someone more kind. Someone who didn’t have these kinds of thoughts all the time, bracing for destruction.

He could tell that Till noticed, his attempts at conversation going from him filling most of the silence, to frowning at Ivan’s fake smiles, to finally deciding to just stay quiet as they drove outside the city.

Ivan hated that part of himself. Not that he liked most of them, but this one especially reminded him too much of the ownership they had always suffered from. He feared that one day, he would look at himself in the mirror and see Unsha smiling back.

It sickened him to a degree that made him want to pluck his own eyes out.

Till was saying something, as they stopped in the middle of a forest to rest and have lunch, and Ivan was smiling when–

“I can’t take this anymore,” Till said. “Ivan, I swear, if you give me one more of those fake smiles I will rip my own hair out.”

“What?”

“I should be the one asking that! What happened? I thought we were fine until this morning! Was… was it something I said last night?”

“No, Till, of course not. It’s just–”

“Just?”

Ivan was not about to say anything he thought. About his love or his jealousy or how unworthy he felt of it all. So, he bit first, hoping to make Till bite back and give him a reason for this pain.

“You’re just being you. Okay?” Ivan snapped, the words coming out harsh and accusatory. “With your flirting.”

Till recoiled as if struck. “My what now?”

“What else would you call it?” Ivan pressed, the poison now flowing freely. “Smiling at some random girl, taking a gift from her. I can’t help but wonder, is this your new type?”

“What is wrong with you?” Till’s voice rose. “I only asked her to give me a hair tie because I thought you might like it! Since when is basic human decency flirting?”

“It’s always decency with you, isn’t it?” Ivan sneered, the self-loathing twisting his features. “That’s all this is too, right? All of this?” He gestured wildly between them. “It’s just your basic human decency. You’re just taking care of me out of pity because you feel guilty for what happened. Because you think you owe me something.”

Till stared at him, his face pale with something hurt.

But Ivan kept going. Of course he did.

“Let’s face it, Till. Our relationship has nowhere left to go. Whatever this is, will never work, just like it didn’t in the past. It will always end up the same way: with us hurting each other.”

The fight seemed to drain out of Till all at once, replaced by a weary, profound hurt. He looked at Ivan not with anger, but with sadness.

“Is that really what you think?” Till asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Ivan had gotten what he wanted. He had pushed Till away and hurt him. So why did it feel so awful?

For a moment, he was stuck there, chest heaving with the force of his outburst. The red haze of jealousy and self-loathing receded, leaving behind a cold, clear vacuum. Into that silence rushed the full, horrifying realization of what he had done.

What did you do? What did you do?

The words were a silent scream in his mind. He had taken their fragile, hard-won peace, the trust Till had so carefully placed in his hands, and smashed it against the wall. He could almost see the shattered pieces lying between them, sharp and irreparable, tainted by the blood on his hands.

“Ivan,” Till said, and to his utmost horror, Ivan saw the glint of tears tracing paths down Till’s cheeks. His voice was quiet, stripped raw. “If you really think we only hurt each other, if that’s all this is to you, then, tell me. I will leave you, then. Just say the word.”

The image bloomed in Ivan’s mind with terrifying clarity: a life without Till. Just like the last seven years.

There was nothing but dread in that.

“No.” He swallowed, his throat tight. “I–I don’t know why I said that. Any of it.”

Till studied him for a long, agonizing moment, the tears still falling silently. He didn’t wipe them away. “I don’t want to leave either,” he admitted, his voice thick. “Really, we can fight. We can hurt each other. Apparently, we are really good at it. I don’t care, as long as we end up okay in the end.”

“I can’t lose this, too,” Till whispered, the confession seeming to cost him everything. “One day I was there, with you, with everyone, and on the other I woke up and everything was gone. I… I wasn’t ready for everyone to leave.”

“I know,” Ivan said softly. He wasn’t ready either. Never had been.

The silence that fell between them was broken only by the occasional, hitching sniff from Till as he tried to regain control of his breathing. The fight had gone out of both of them, leaving behind a landscape of raw nerves and exhaustion. Ivan, desperate to fix whatever this was, finally spoke into the quiet.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, his voice low. “I can give you some space.”

Till shook his head, his gaze fixed on the grass between them. “I’m not really wanting to talk right now, but can you stay?”

The request was simple, but it realigned something inside him just the same. Till wanted him to stay. He never thought he would.

“Alright,” Ivan said.

Till gave a small, thankful nod. “Alright.”

.

They found their way to a suspicious-looking bar on the outskirts of the next city. According to Till, it was run by humans sympathetic to the rebellion and was the source of most of the credible rumors about Mizi’s whereabouts.

It was no exaggeration to say their expectations were high. Both of them felt sure this would be the city she was in. But a city, while infinitely smaller than an entire planet, was still vast. It could take days to find a single trace of the girl, and in the worst case, not only might she no longer be there, but she could easily slip away in the time it took them to search.

Not that it stopped them, though.

As they entered the dim, hazy establishment, Ivan felt Till immediately stiffen beside him. The reaction was understandable. Ivan didn’t think Till had a single good memory associated with places like this. The scent of cheap liquor, the bright neon lights and the low murmur of deals being made were sure to bring back bad memories.

“Till,” he tried, keeping his voice low. “If you want, I can go in alone.”

“What?” Till’s response was sharp, his focus narrowing on Ivan.

“I can handle this. You can wait outside.”

Till finally glanced at him, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. We stick together. I’m fine.”

Ivan knew he wasn’t. He could see the tension in Till’s shoulders.

“Hey, it will be quick. I will enter, ask some questions, and leave. I’ll come back before you can even think,” Ivan tried to argue.

He could still see Till wasn’t convinced. With a fond sigh, he slowly picked up his braided hair and put it over his shoulder, showing it to the man.

Ivan never wore his hair up by choice, as it reminded him too much of being Unsha’s wife’s plaything, always putting him in this and that, styling him for her amusement. However, this time he let it stay because it was Till who had made it. And that, somehow, made it okay.

“Consider it as a thanks for doing this to me.”

Till’s eyes softened.

“Alright, but if you take longer than ten minutes, I’m going in.”

“Of course, my hero,” Ivan said, putting his hands together near his face and batting his eyelashes in a theatrical display.

Till just shot him a withering look, the momentary vulnerability from before sealed shut behind a wall of fake annoyance. "Just go."

Not even five minutes later, Ivan was back, finding Till pacing a short, agitated path on the far side of the street.

“Well?” Till asked expectantly, stopping in his tracks, but not before analyzing his body, searching for injuries.

“I think she might really be here, but…” Ivan hesitated, watching the hope on Till’s face begin to curdle. “They saw a human woman no one recognized walking near the city’s borders about a week ago. However, it seems a new establishment revolving around human trafficking appeared here not long ago. All the humans in the bar seemed terrified of it, commenting that no one dares to walk around alone like that anymore.”

“Do you think…” Till started, his voice filled with horror.

“I think it’s our best shot,” Ivan finished quietly, his own stomach sinking.

“Shit,” Till breathed out.

Shit, indeed, Ivan thought.

The worst part, one he didn’t dare to voice aloud, was the fact that some part of him was certain Mizi had willingly walked into this city knowing the danger. There was no way she hadn't heard the rumors, as they were clearly widespread, a current of fear running through every human conversation. Which meant she either didn't care about the risk, or she was walking straight into the lion's den for a reason.

Neither possibility was comforting.

“Well, it’s not like it will be our first time sneaking in and out of a guarded facility, right? If we did it younger, we can certainly do it again.” He tried.

Till nodded. “You are right, but… we will need to make a plan. We find this place, we learn its patterns, its guards. We see who goes in and who comes out.”

“Agreed,” Ivan said.

So that’s what they did.

The next two days were a study in patience and paranoia. They found the establishment on the edge of the city, as rumoured, a windowless building which was unassuming enough, if not for the steady stream of sleek, black vehicles and the hulking, armed figures at the door, always accompanying a ship filled with humans, that made the truth chillingly clear.

They took shifts, watching from a nearby building. They tracked the guard rotations and tried to come up with a way to steal one of the entry passes to go in without raising any alarms.

On the third day, opportunity finally presented itself. The laziest guard on the roster, a purple, seemingly part-aquatic segyein who consistently dozed off during his watch, provided the opening they needed. In no time, Till moved toward them, slipping the keycard from their belt without so much as a rustle of clothing.

Before they moved in, however, Till made a call asking for reinforcements, explaining that they had found a place full of humans. He carefully omitted any mention of Mizi, as he knew the official opinion of her within the rebellion was complicated, at best. He was met with a promise of reinforcements, but they would take at least a day to get there, if not longer.

Which put them in a tough situation: every single night, a transport loaded with humans left the facility. Waiting a day meant condemning another group to an unknown fate. While Ivan didn’t particularly care, already accustomed to the ways of the world, he could see it would eat Till from the inside, so they figured it would be best if they could enter, and at least secure the safety of those humans. Plus, there was a chance Mizi was in the middle of that group, too. They couldn’t really risk it.

So, using the stolen card during the brief, five-minute window of the guard rotation, they slipped inside.

Unfortunately, they didn't have a map. The interior was a maze of stark, fluorescent-lit corridors. They could only move forward, pressing themselves into alcoves and ducking behind machinery whenever the heavy tread of footsteps echoed too close. Both he and Till had guns, ones that Till had brought with him at the beginning of their journey, but neither wanted to engage in combat, as it was too risky, considering their numbers.

Thankfully, the building wasn't too grand and the path of despair was tragically easy to follow. They passed cell after cell, each one a vision of horror where humans were huddled together in conditions that were inhumane by any measure. Ivan could see Till’s fists clenching, his knuckles white. It was clearly tearing him apart to walk past their pleading eyes and cries for help, but for now, the priority was finding the group slated for that night's transport.

Which wasn’t hard to find. Just a few rooms deeper, they found a larger room containing two cleaner, less crowded cells. The occupants there, while pale and frightened, were visibly in better condition–washed and dressed in plain clothes, made presentable for sale.

There was no sign of Mizi.

"I can bypass the cell locks," Till whispered, pulling a small device from his pocket and connecting it to the keypad right in front of one of the cells. "But it'll take a few minutes."

"I'll check the next room then," Ivan said, nodding toward a single, reinforced door at the end of the hall. "In the off-chance she's being held separately."

Till didn't look happy about the idea of splitting up, his eyes flashing with clear apprehension. But he gave a sharp, reluctant nod. Time was of the essence, after all.

Ivan moved to the door, easing it open and slipping into the darkness beyond. This room was different–smaller, quieter.

And there, in the corner, was Mizi.

Mizi, his first friend. Mizi, with soft hugs and even softer hair. Mizi who smiled and made the world seem alright. Mizi, who he had missed terribly and written tons of letters to. Mizi who had seen the love of her life lose the light from her eyes right in front of her. Mizi, who had many, many layers, that only now Ivan was bothered to try to decipher.

Mizi who seemed dead, if not for her quiet breaths.

She was hugging her knees, her face buried, her entire being folded inward as if to occupy the smallest possible space in the world. She didn't stir at the sound of his entrance. There was no look of recognition, not even a flicker of awareness. She was simply absent.

He took a cautious step forward, then another, his boots silent on the floor.

For some reason, he felt like crying.

That place… it had nothing in there. It was a little cell, with glass walls, a flickering light that seemed to never go off, the door he entered, the ground, and Mizi, with a wig that reminded him too much of Sua’s hair color and a body burned to almost disfiguration. That was all.

He didn't know how much time she had spent there, but he wanted to get her out so desperately.

He carefully approached her, “Hey Mizi, it’s me, Ivan.”

Slowly, as if moving through deep water, she lifted her head. Her eyes, the ones he remembered as being so full of light and fire, were vacant. There was no recognition in them.

“Me and Till, we came to take you out,” he tried, but she didn’t stir. “Do you… do you want to go out?”

She didn’t answer.

A soft curse from the doorway broke the terrible stillness. Till stood there, his work on the cell locks evidently finished, his face was full of conflicting emotions as he took in the scene. His eyes, hard and focused moments before, now softened with a profound, weary pain at the sight of her.

"She's catatonic," Ivan said quietly, the clinical word feeling inadequate to describe his friend, but being all he had.

Till didn't answer. He simply moved to the cell door, his movements mechanical, and placed the same device on the lock. A few agonizing minutes passed in a silence broken only by the hum of the device and the distant, muffled sounds of the facility. When the lock disengaged with a soft click, Till entered, and immediately knelt beside her, his frame blocking out the harsh light, casting a protective shadow over her hunched form.

"Mizi." He said her name like it was something precious, because to him, it was. “I… I won’t pretend to know how you feel. I don’t think anyone can. We all carry our grief differently. Our anger. Our love. And.. and I know it’s hard, and sometimes it’s almost impossible to have hope”, he took a shaky breath, steadying himself against all that he was feeling, “but can you come with us?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before he continued.

“I want to see the world outside with you. Finding a quiet place, a nicer home where you, Ivan and I could be, without worrying about thirst or hunger. I want to… to properly know you this time. There are so many people I want you to meet, as well.” His words painted a fragile, impossible picture in the grim air. “Our world back then was so fucking tiny, you wouldn’t believe it. There’s so much more stuff to do, to discover. And I want to do that with you. I want to take you out of this place… and see you become somebody. A Mizi who isn’t defined by the walls of that garden.”

Gently, as if handling broken glass, he took her limp hands in his. They were cold. “We went to a lot of places. We survived a lot. But we never really lived, did we?” The question hung in the air. “I want to live. I want to live alongside all of you, and I will dare to say you wish to, as well, considering all you have put up with so far. So, please… Can you come with me? Even if it’s just to grant me this one, selfish wish.”

Till poured his heart out, the wishes he didn’t dare to say, and as an answer, Mizi finally looked back at him.

Her stare was hollow.

“Why?” The word was flat, devoid of curiosity. “I am where I am meant to be.”

“No, you’re not,” Till insisted, his voice cracking.

She looked at Till, and giggled.

“Being here, being there. It doesn’t matter, Till. Everyone leaves, anyway.”

“I didn’t leave,” Till whispered, and as much as any occupant in the room could argue, it was true.

“But you will,” she argued back, her gaze fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance, refusing to look at him. “Or you’ll be taken. Or you’ll die. Or something happens and it’ll be my fault again. It’s just a matter of time. It always is.”

Ivan saw Till open his mouth, a fresh argument on his lips, but a harsh sound cut him off. It was the blare of the alarm, sharp and deafening. A piercing red light began to strobe, flooding the cell and casting their faces in alternating washes of light and shadow.

Shit.

"Sorry about this," Till murmured, the apology swift and practical. In one fluid motion, he bent down and scooped Mizi into his arms. She offered no resistance, her body limp and boneless. There was no fight left in her, no life to even protest.

Ivan was already at the door, his head whipping toward the area. The humans they had just freed were huddled together, their faces etched with fresh terror, waiting for a signal, a direction.

"Follow me!" Ivan barked, his voice cutting through the siren's wail. His eyes scanned the group. "Can any of you use a gun?"

A man with a hardened face and steady hands immediately raised his. Without hesitation, Ivan reached for the one holstered at Till's hip–useless to him now while he was carrying Mizi–and tossed it to the man. "You will need to protect them with me. Watch our backs."

The man caught the weapon, checked the chamber with a practiced flick of his wrist, and gave a sharp nod.

Ivan had, thankfully, memorized the route when they came in, and now that mental map burned bright in his mind. He led the frantic group back the way they came, him and the armed man taking down guards who rounded corners with shocking efficiency. The element of surprise was still theirs, but it was fading fast.

They burst into the main corridor leading to the entrance, and Ivan’s heart sank. It wasn't even locked, but the way out was blocked, not by a few guards, but by a solid wall of at least twenty of them, weapons raised and ready. Too many. Far too many for two armed men and a terrified huddle of humans to punch through.

A plan. They needed a plan, and they needed it five minutes ago.

His mind raced, flipping through the mental files of his prior surveillance. The guards here, the ones on the main entrance… some of them had been carrying heavier machinery. It wasn't a stretch to think one might have a grenade. If he could just get one, create a distraction in the center of that formation…

He looked at Till, the nascent, desperate idea forming on his lips.

“What if I–”

"No." Till's response was instantaneous, absolute, his voice cutting through the chaos as he adjusted his grip on the lifeless Mizi.

Ivan whirled around, offended. “You didn’t even know what I was gonna say.”

"It doesn't matter," Till shot back, his eyes never leaving the threat at the end of the hall. "The look on your face told me everything I needed to know. I won't like it."

“That’s no novelty. You hardly like any of my ideas."

“Because they are often crazy and involve you doing something stupid–”

"Well, we need crazy now, don't we?" Ivan hissed, gesturing wildly at the impenetrable line of guards.

"But–"

"Do you have a better idea, Till?" Ivan challenged, his voice dropping to a furious whisper. "Because, if you do, I'm all ears! Or do you just plan on us all standing here until they decide to kill us all?"

The standoff lasted only a second, but it felt like an eternity. Till’s jaw worked, his eyes darting from the guards to the helpless people behind them, then to Mizi’s vacant face. He had no answer.

“Thought so,” he said. “Then, I will need you to wait here.”

“You want me to leave you here to fight them alone? No fucking way.”

“Till, they need you. Me and you are the only contact to the outside world, if both of us go down, it’s over.”

“Let me go, then. I probably can handle a gun better than you,” Till said, indignant.

Ivan paid no mind to him, quickly reloading his gun.

Till’s eyes blazed with helpless fury. “Ivan, don’t you dare–"

But Ivan was already turning away, checking the chamber of his gun with a final, decisive click. He glanced back over his shoulder, a grim, almost fond smile touching his lips. “When have I ever listened to you, Till?”

Before the man could shout another protest, Ivan was moving, breaking into a sprint straight down the corridor toward the barricade of guards, completely ignoring the choked, furious calls of his name that echoed behind him.

Ivan was, by no means, a natural fighter. His movements were more determination than finesse. To make things infinitely worse, a sharp, familiar burn lanced through his arm with every jolt of his run, the old injury refusing to let him raise his arm to a proper firing position. But if there was one thing Ivan was, it was stubbornly, infuriatingly persistent.

He fired from the hip, the shots wild but effective enough to make the front line of guards duck and scatter, buying him a precious second. His eyes scanned the chaos, discarding targets until he found it: a cylindrical canister hooked to the belt of a guard who was shouting orders. A grenade.

Ivan lunged, his bad arm screaming in protest as he used his body to slam the guard against the wall. With his good hand, he wrenched the grenade free. He didn't think, didn't calculate–just pulled the pin and hurled it with all his remaining strength into the densest cluster of guards blocking the main door.

It was a perfect throw.

But also enough time for one of them to get a clean shot off.

The bullet hit him like a sledgehammer to the ribs, punching the air from his lungs in a silent gasp. He was still stumbling backward from the impact when the world dissolved into white-hot noise and force. The grenade detonated, and the concussive wave picked him up and threw him like a discarded toy.

He thought he blacked out for a moment, because when he came to, he was surrounded by glass and debris, his back to a wall he didn't remember hitting, his entire body aching. A high-pitched whine was the only thing in his ears, and each ragged attempt to breathe was a knife twisting in his side. The world swam in and out of focus, the edges of his vision tinged with gray.

“–for fuck’s sake, it’s not stopping–”

Ivan recognized Till’s voice. He sounded panicked, his voice wobbling and raspy, like he’d been yelling for a long time.

A man’s voice he didn’t recognize, slightly electric, came from his side. “Just keep applying pressure. We are coming soon.”

“Soon? How soon is soon?”

“Till?” Ivan managed, the word a wet, ragged thing.

Till’s gaze snapped to him, and something raw and terrified flashed across his face before he schooled it into a mask of fierce concentration, turning back to the searing pain in Ivan’s chest. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Despite the fire in his ribs, Ivan’s first, blurry thought was for him. “You… alright?”

For some reason, that made Till’s composure shatter. A sob ripped from his throat. “Ivan, why the fuck are you asking that?” He stopped instantly, his gaze flicking down to his own hands, and oh–there was so much blood, slick and dark and red, so red it was just like–“Just. Bear with me? I’ll get you fixed in a moment. They are coming soon, okay?”

Ivan closed his eyes, just for a second, to escape the spinning world, but it prompted a panicked, “No, no–!”

And everything went black.

.

Ivan missed Phoebe. He wished he could have seen her again.

He wondered if Mizi would be alright.

He kind of wanted to hear Till laugh one more time, a real one, not the bitter, hollow sound it had become the last few days.

.

He was unsure how much time had passed, but he tiredly opened his eyes again to the sound of sniffles.

And it was Till. Till was the one crying, he realized, with a sharp pang of guilt. Ivan hated how much Till cried around him. It was unfair. He just wanted to make him happy, but it seemed like things always ended up worse when he was around.

“Ivan, Ivan, Ivan,” Till chanted, his voice thick with panic. “It’s okay, we’re okay. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Yes,” he whispered back, exhausted. He doubted he would come back from this one, but he wanted to make Till a little bit calmer anyway.

“Fuck, Ivan, why would you do that?” He felt increased pressure on his wound. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. “I can’t do this again, please, I just got you back, please, please, oh don’t you fucking dare to close your eyes–”

“I’m not going to,” Ivan murmured, his eyelids fluttering shut before he forced them open again.

“Right, thank you. I–Dewey, what the fuck do I do? I–I think he is dying, he’s dying again and it’s my fault–”

“Hey, Till, deep breaths. What did I just tell you?” the electric voice, Dewey, cut in, calm and steady.

“Panic helps no one,” Till repeated, the words a ragged whisper.

“Right.”

A sudden, iron-rich taste flooded Ivan’s mouth. He coughed, and a wave of dark blood spilled over his lips. He felt Till’s horrified gaze and somehow knew it was his fault. “Sorry,” he gasped, struggling to breathe. “Don’t… don’t be sad. I don’t like it–”

“I’m.. I’m not sad,” Till lied, his voice breaking. “Just scared, Ivan.”

“Mhm,” Ivan hummed, the sound barely audible. “Me too.”

“I know, I know,” Till whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed down harder on the wound, trying to staunch the relentless flow. Ivan let out a sharp, pained hiss, his body tensing.

“Hurts…”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Till repeated, a desperate mantra. “Just a little longer, please.”

Ivan’s eyes drifted shut again, his strength visibly ebbing.

“Hey! No, look at me,” Till commanded, his voice raw. “Ivan, look at me.”

With a monumental effort, Ivan’s eyelids fluttered open, his dark, hazy gaze fixing on Till’s face. He did it because, even now, looking at Till was his favorite thing to do. It always had been.

Seeing his eyes open, Till looked marginally, fractionally, relieved. “That’s it. Just keep looking at me. Don’t… don’t go anywhere.” He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “When we get out of this… when you’re back on your feet… is there anything you want to do? Anything at all?”

Ivan was silent for a moment, his breath a shallow, rattling thing. “Phoebe,” he finally whispered. “Wanted… to see Phoebe.”

“Right. What else? Tell me something else.”

Ivan’s eyes, still locked on Till’s, seemed to look through him, towards a future he was desperately trying to picture. “The house,” he breathed, the words barely audible. “The nice one… you said you’d build… for Mizi.”

“Yeah,” Till choked out, tears streaming freely down his face now, mingling with the grime and blood. “Yeah, we will. We’ll build it. With a nice balcony for you to see all the stars you want. You’ll see it. I promise.”

Ivan’s vision blurred. He blinked and it cleared and it blurred again.

“Ivan, you said to me,” Till whispered. “ You said you wouldn’t die. I need you to be okay.”

“Till, I need to tell you–”

“You can tell me everything you want when we go back, and you wake up and be okay–”

“Till–”

“–we are not doing this. Not now, not ever. Just focus on being awake–”

“Till, please, I–I’m… dying.”

“No, what the fuck Ivan, you are not–”

“–and I need to tell you because I never said it properly–”

“–Ivan please, don’t do this to me again–”

“I love you.”

He said, using all his strength to put his hands on top of Till’s. It was funny. He had been containing these words for what? Twenty years or so, and they were out like that, so easily.

Ivan had so much love to give, but all that didn't matter now.

Till was crying, and even as he felt bad for making him this sad, Ivan was happy that Till was the last thing he would see. Some things truly never change.

“I… would’ve loved to live alongside you,” he whispered, thinking about that nice house, with the view of the stars, eating Till’s cooking everyday. Meeting the friends he made, seeing his kids and how he takes care of them. Talking to Mizi about Sua. “I would’ve loved to meet you properly. I…I would’ve loved to mean something to you.”

He saw Till’s mouth move, a frantic, desperate plea shaping words that no longer reached him. The sound was fading, the world softening at the edges, pulling away like a tide. There was no fight left in him, it seemed.

As the darkness crept in, a final, gentle thought surfaced–a consolation prize for a life unlived.

Perhaps he wouldn’t get that in this life, but maybe he would see him in another one.

That was a nice thought to have, as his last one.

Chapter Text

When Till was first rescued, he remained inside the hospital room for two whole months.

His injuries had long since healed by the third week, enough for him to leave. There was no medical excuse for him to stay, but the urge to get out never once appeared. There was no special reason for his confinement. It wasn’t sadness, anger, or the aimless feeling of not knowing what to do that kept him there. He just… didn’t want to. Till would wake up, wonder why he even bothered, go back to sleep, rise, and repeat.

The time he spent there, trapped willingly inside its four walls, had been terribly quiet. The kind of quiet you can only endure because there is no other choice, nor anyone else to fill it–but you know, deep down, that if you tried, it would not only be pointless but it would also just hurt.

He had never once liked the quiet. It gave too much space for terrible thoughts to sneak into his mind and make a home there. That was why he had always tried to fill it, be it with silly conversations, his music, or the quiet comfort of the concentration he found while drawing. In retrospect, it was no wonder Ivan’s ghost appeared, considering Till felt no urge to do any of these things and his mind was far too loud and too unkind.

Those months were a blur in his mind. The only thing that mattered was Ivan’s ghost following him around. Sometimes, it was mean, sometimes, it was quiet. Sometimes it appeared younger, other times older. Sometimes it was there immediately after Till woke from a nightmare, other times, it only appeared as the day was near its end. Till didn’t care, really, as long as he kept coming back. He had long since grown used to its presence, and if he ever felt bothered, thrashing his neck beyond recognition made it disappear.

It was only after the third month, when he was given a room indefinitely too small for two people, that he stared at Ivan’s face–blood dripping from its mouth, eyes without any light on them–and realized he had never planned to survive for so long. There had never been an "after" in Till’s mind, beyond the walls of Alien Stage. And now, here he was, the only one there, with too much time on his hands and an infinity of choices laid out before him.

It wasn't that he lacked the desire to do anything. Quite the contrary, really. He wanted to see the outside world. He wanted to keep writing songs. He wanted to draw everything he saw. He wanted to be himself without fearing punishment.

But he had never wanted to do it alone.

The silence, he could deal with. His best friend’s ghost was bearable to be around. But the guilt and loneliness eating him from the inside out? Not so much.

There was nothing easy about living anymore. Breathing was hard because he felt guilty for doing so. The urge to laugh always died in his throat. Waking up to the light coming out of his window just made him realize no one would be there for him, come tomorrow morning. He wanted to scream and scream and scream until he couldn't anymore, just to drown everything else out, but he was unable to do even that, since his throat was a mess.

Till had long since noticed he didn’t know himself. The things that once felt right, simply did not fit together in his life anymore.

It was only when Isaac sat down beside him on his bed and laid his heart bare that Till felt shame. Shame for staying there when so many others had suffered losses but had chosen to keep going anyway. Shame when there was a man in front of him that, despite losing so much, still kept going.

That day, Ivan did not appear, and Till decided to get up and leave that dead end for the first time.

It wasn’t easy, but he knew he needed to keep going. It was the right thing to do. Not only for himself, but for everyone around him–for those who had died, and those who had sacrificed everything and were left with nothing.

However, it was still impossible some days. There were moments he said too many things that should have been left unsaid to those offering nothing but kindness, lashed out in anger to hold down his anguish, and made them walk away. There were days that Ivan’s memory breathed down too close to his neck for him to pretend to focus on anything else.

But… there were days that were good. They were few and far between, but enough to keep him going. Amidst his pain and suffering, there was warmth to be found. Food that tasted good when he tried it for the first time. People he enjoyed messing around with. Landscapes he all but engraved in his mind. On those, he tried to enjoy himself twice as much, for all the people he held dear who couldn't be there.

By the second year, he had started a habit. Ivan’s ghost scoffed at him every day he did it, but it brought him peace nonetheless: he started to collect bits of the past like trinkets.

He still didn’t sing and didn’t write, but he tried to play a few songs once in a while. He kept his room the same. The bed, which was first placed on the left, he swiftly moved to the right, the spot it had always been, back in Anakt Garden. The walls remained blank. He tried to keep the mess of thrown things on the floor, too, and ignored how his chest squeezed every time he saw it and remembered Ivan wouldn’t come unlocking his door and complain about it in that condescending tone of his.

Till still sat in the same place at tables, on the far left, and pretended to ignore the throbbing in his scars when Ivan’s ghost sat right beside him, teasing him about his choice in food. Deep inside his room, hidden beneath piles of clothes, he wrote the entirety of Cure from memory. It had always been a duet. No one would ever sing the other part with him.

He had started collecting little accessories he thought Mizi and Sua would like. He doubted either of them would approve of his choices, but he could never figure out what they would like now, so he just tried everything he could. It still pained him sometimes, the fact he hadn't known them as well as he thought he did. He could only hope Sua would have liked the color purple and that Mizi would still have wanted something to adorn her hair, even though it was short now.

Till still went to see the stars sometimes, more because he wanted Ivan’s ghost to tag along than anything else, but it was always tricky. It could leave him feeling nostalgic in the same way it could tear him open and leave him to dry. On the best days, he was tempted to ask Ivan why he had liked the stars so much anyway, since no one in the rebel base even bothered to look at them, but there was no point when there was no one to hear the answer but himself.

Sometimes he couldn’t help but remember the emptiness he felt, how alone he felt despite being surrounded by good people. He didn’t flinch when Dewey messed with his hair, and he learned to accept Isaac’s compliments easily. Imagining a future wasn't so hard anymore, even though Ivan’s ghost was right beside him in all those visions.

However, even as he started to find his own clumsy, awkward way to navigate life again, a single truth remained the same. They wouldn’t be there anymore. They would never be there anymore. No matter what he did, they were gone.

So he kept drawing faces from people long gone, bought little trinkets he had no use for, and called out to a ghost he wouldn’t let go off any time soon. He held onto the past while trying to move toward the future in his own messy way, because they were gone, and he wasn’t.

.

Till didn't know what that said about him, but by the fourth year, he noticed he no longer wanted Ivan’s ghost to leave.

Yes, the ghost said and did things that made Till wish he had been the one shot and left to die that day. He could be cruel, selfish, and narcissistic, but it was also all he had left of his friend. He would never get the old Ivan back, so he clung to this invented Ivan, who clung to him just as desperately. He realized then that he had never been able to hold Ivan properly–not without a fight starting or words being left unsaid.

The phantom presence tore him open in the same way it stitched him together, because through it, he began to notice things he never had before.

He noticed the specific way Ivan would tap his fingers on tabletops when he was thinking. The hidden softness in his voice when he thought no one was listening. The exact shape his lips made to force out a fake laugh, and how different it was from the real one. He remembered Ivan’s childhood habit of walking with his arms behind his back, a mannerism lost in adulthood. He saw how Ivan's hair would curl around his ear when it wasn't straightened. And he considered the fact that all those times Ivan had crawled into his bed when they were younger might not have been to be a menace, but because he, too, had felt lonely.

Till saw it all then, in painful, exquisite detail. And the seeing was a new kind of agony, because there was nothing he could do with these revelations. He collected them, held them close to his heart, and mourned the fact that he had never noticed them before–that he should have been kinder. His heart was sculpted from remorse, his blood was anger, and his every muscle ached with regret.

Perhaps that was why sleep refused him. Perhaps that was why Ivan’s ghost remained and why he ultimately didn't want it to leave: it was only thanks to the ghost that he kept noticing new things.

If the ghost left, that would mean there was nothing else to discover.

The feeling of knowing there would be nothing new left to learn about his friend left him with a different kind of ache, the same one that afflicted him every time he looked in the mirror and noticed his voice would never be what it once was. It would mean that Ivan was truly, finally gone.

.

“Hey Till, do you wanna come with us to fix one of our member’s motorcycles?” Dewey asked, bursting through the door of his room without ceremony.

He didn’t startle, merely lowered his gaze from the ceiling crack he’d been studying with intense focus. “Not really,” he said, his voice flat. “Maybe next time.”

“You said that the last time,” Dewey countered, planting his hands on his hips. “So, come on.”

Till merely turned his head away, a silent dismissal. Most days, the relentless campaign by Dewey, Isaac, and the other members to drag him from his room sparked a faint, grateful warmth in his chest. Today, that warmth was buried under a heavy, cold blanket of apathy. He just wanted to wallow in the quiet of his space for a little longer.

Unfortunately, Dewey was a stubborn bastard who cared for none of that. In one fluid motion, the man crossed the room. In the next, Till felt the world tilt violently as Dewey hoisted him over a broad shoulder like a sack of grain.

“What the–Dewey!” he grunted, the air forced from his lungs.

“You had your chance to come willingly,” the man declared, his voice annoyingly cheerful as he marched out of the room, most likely heading to the ‘garage’ (it was not a garage, really, more a spacious room filled with junk to fix their vehicles. But every time he didn’t call it right, Isaac would shoot him a look).

“Put me down.” He delivered a solid punch to the small of Dewey’s back, a blow he knew did absolutely nothing to the man. A flicker of envy mixed with his irritation. Till could only hope to build muscles like that one day. “Dude, I’m serious. Put me down.”

Dewey just chuckled, the sound rumbling through him. “You can complain all the way to the garage, man. I’m not letting you spend another day locked inside.”

“I haven’t been in there that long,” Till muttered, the protest weak even to his own ears as he accepted his fate and rolled his eyes, watching the floorboards slide by upside down.

“Two days is enough for me,” Dewey stated, his tone shifting from playful to something more grounded. “You know we worry.”

Guilt, cold and sharp, began to eat him from the inside out. He went limp, the last of his resistance bleeding away. He hated that he made them worry. Hated the silent promise he made to himself every time–this time will be different–only to find himself back in the same suffocating place: hiding in his room, waiting for Ivan to appear.

He bit his own bottom lip, the coppery taste of blood a sharp, grounding punishment, just as Dewey shouldered his way into the garage. "The star of the show has arrived!" He announced, his voice booming in the cluttered space.

Isaac looked up from the chair he was sitting on, right beside a blue motorcycle. His eyes, however, flicked upward, taking in the scene: Dewey's grin and Till's utterly defeated posture slung over his shoulder. He sighed, a long, weary sound, and pinched the bridge of his nose with greasy fingers, closing his eyes as if to gather a patience he distinctly did not possess at that moment.

"What," Isaac began, his voice dangerously level, "did I tell you before you went to fetch him?"

Dewey's grin didn't falter. He shifted Till's weight and adopted a deeper, mock-serious tone, trying to mimic Isaac's voice. “Only bring him if he wants to come.”

Isaac finally opened his eyes, his gaze nailing Dewey to the spot. He was not impressed. "And does this," he asked, gesturing toward Till, "look like 'wanting to come' to you?"

“Well, when does he ever, Isaac?” Dewey shot back, his frustration bubbling over, revealing the genuine concern beneath. “I know we need to give him space, but staying closed in a dark room for days on end isn’t helping him. It needs to stop one way or another.”

“So your solution is to manhandle him? To drag him down here against his will? What’s that going to solve, Dewey? He’ll just be miserable here instead of there.”

“At least he’s here!” Dewey’s voice raised a bit. “At least he’s not alone with whatever’s eating him alive in that room! He’s breathing different air, he’s seeing something other than those four walls. That’s a start.”

“And making him feel like he is obligated to stay is surely going to help him, right?” Isaac’s tone was pure, cold irony. “You think adding guilt to whatever he’s already carrying is the solution? What you’re doing right now only makes him feel like a problem to be solved, not a person to be understood. Just–put him down, Dewey. Now."

Dewey’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek as his grip on Till tightened for a moment, almost in defiance. For a moment, it seemed he might refuse. But with a grunt of exasperation, he carefully lowered Till, setting him unsteadily on his feet.

The blood rushed from Till's head, making the room spin in a nauseating whirl for a moment. He steadied himself against a nearby workbench, his knuckles white as shame and a confusing swell of gratitude swallowed him whole.

They were fighting about what to do with him. Again.

Till knew it was just him being dramatic and the bad place he was in mentally right now, but sometimes, he just felt like a burden in every way possible.

Maybe guessing what he was thinking, Isaac's attention, heavy and patient, shifted to Till once more. "The door's right there," he said, his tone gentle. "You can go back to your room if that's what you need. But the offer stands. You can also stay.” He turned slightly, gesturing weakly with his hand towards the blue motorcycle. “We are still trying to figure out what’s wrong with it. Your help would be appreciated. You’ve always had a better eye for these things.”

“Hey, not it, show some respect.” Dewey interjected, the fight seeming to drain out of him as he seized the chance to lighten the mood. “She has a name, you know.”

Isaac looked at Dewey, his expression profoundly unimpressed. “And what,” he deadpanned, “is her name?”

“Jennifer.”

Eventually they fell into their familiar, bickering rhythm, letting a coldness seep into the space beside Till. He didn't have to look. He could feel Ivan hugging him from behind, his face leaning on top of his shoulder, a smirk etched onto a face only Till could see.

"How long will you keep being a burden to them, hmm? Maybe you should leave."

Till clenched his jaw, focusing on the real shapes of Dewey and Isaac. However, despite the dread, he looked down to where Ivan was. His body always betrayed him like that, as if he didn’t look at him once, the world would fall apart.

"Your 'help'?" Ivan chuckled, a dry, soundless thing. "They're just giving you a task to make themselves feel better. A pity project. You think they actually need you? You, who can't even figure out how to get out of bed some days?"

"Shut up," Till whispered under his breath.

"Did you say something?" Dewey asked, frowning.

Till cleared his throat, forcing his voice to be steady. "I said I'll help." He took a deliberate step away from the workbench, from the cold spot, from Ivan’s arms, and towards the bike–towards Jennifer. "What do you think is the problem?"

Isaac gave a slow, approving nod, while Dewey’s face split into a genuine, relieved grin.

"My first thought was the battery. The lights are dim, and the starter sounds weak." Isaac gestured to the headlamp, which did, in fact, emit a sickly yellow glow. “It could be a problem with the charging system as well, but in these cases we start looking for trouble with the battery, which is easier to fix.”

Considering it was not the first time such a problem had occurred, Till already knew they would need a multimeter, so he started searching the cluttered workbench he had just stepped away from, his focus narrowing to the task. He tuned out the background chatter between Dewey and Isaac, only noticing the sound of the door shutting as he finally located the device. When he turned around, only Isaac remained, already lifting the seat off the bike to access the battery.

He marched over and offered the multimeter. “Where did Dewey go?”

“He needed to see how the new recruits were doing. My guess is he just wanted to goof off, to be honest.”

Till huffed. “So he dragged me just so he could laze around? What an asshole.”

Isaac let out a non-committal grunt, taking the multimeter from Till’s hand. His movements were practiced as he flicked the device on. "Alright, pay attention. This is simple," he began, his voice taking on a patient, instructive tone. "First, you set this dial here to the 20-volt mark. Since we're dealing with a 12-volt battery, that'll give us the reading we need."

He handed the multimeter back to Till for a moment while he positioned the probes. "Red probe goes to the positive terminal," he continued, pointing to the red cable connector on the battery. "Black probe to the negative. It doesn't matter which one you touch first, but you've got to make sure they're on the right terminals. Don't let them touch each other, either."

Till nodded, watching intently as Isaac took the probes back and carefully placed them against the corresponding battery posts. The digital screen on the multimeter flickered to life, displaying the number 11.4.

"See that?" Isaac said, tapping the screen. "It's reading under twelve volts. A good, healthy battery should sit at around 12 or even 13 volts when it's resting." He pulled the probes away and switched the multimeter off. "Thankfully, it's not the charging system this time. We will try to charge it with a trickle charger, and if it doesn’t work, we will need to replace it."

Till nodded as he picked up the multimeter and went back once more to the workbench to find the charger, which was nestled under a coil of spare electrical wire, its familiar boxy shape a welcome sight. He brought it over to Isaac.

"Alright," Isaac said, taking the charger. "Same idea, different tool." He held up the two alligator clips, red and black. "Red to positive," he stated, clamping the red clip securely onto the battery's positive terminal with a definitive click. "Black to negative." The black clip found its home on the negative post. "Go ahead and plug it into the wall."

As ordered, he moved to the nearby outlet and pushed the plug in. A small LED on the charger blinked once, then glowed a steady amber.

"Now, check the dial," Isaac instructed. "Make sure it's set for a 12-volt battery. We don't want to fry it."

Till leaned in, squinting at the small gauge. "It's on twelve."

"Good. Now we wait. It'll take more than a few minutes to tell us anything useful."

An awkward silence settled between them, punctuated only by the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the charger. Till watched the amber light, willing it to turn green quickly. Isaac wiped his hands on a rag, his gaze distant, as if he was considering saying something.

“You never knew Hyuna,” Isaac said, his voice low, not looking up from his hands. He wasn't asking. It was a simple, heavy statement of fact.

Till shook his head, a nervous knot tightening in his stomach. Everyone knew how losing Hyuna had shattered Isaac, and he rarely spoke of her unprompted. "No. I'd only heard the stories by the time I got here."

“She was a menace,” Isaac continued, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “You’d look away for one second, and something would be on fire while you heard her cackling in the background. But everyone loved her. We played cards together, sang together.” He paused, his gaze fixed on a memory. “She’s the one who taught me how to fix a bike. The one who made it matter in my heart.“

He finally glanced at Till. “The rare moments you talked about your friends, the time you spent together, the memories that are stuck in your heart forever… It made me think of her. The way she’d fight with merchants for the parts we needed, the way she’d get grease smeared on her cheek and never notice. Those moments will shine forever in my mind. A lot of things around me will always have a piece of her right beside it. I see her when I fix a bike. I see her when I eat the terrible stew she loved. I even see her when I go to bed with wet hair, just like she always did.”

Isaac leaned back in his chair, his eyes lifting to the ceiling. “But it’s alright, even if it hurts some days. We keep the people dear to us alive in these small things, you know? In this garage, when I teach someone who’s never held a wrench before… I’m giving them the same experience she gave me. That’s the most efficient way I know how to keep someone alive in my heart.”

He looked down, his gaze settling on Till once more, with a sad smile. “You see, sometimes the kids here ask me, ‘If you could go anywhere with anyone in the world, who would it be?’ And my answer is always her. Just one more time. One more bike, one more laugh at one of my stupid mistakes. It might sound silly, but this place saved my life, in more ways than one.”

“It makes me feel awful, sometimes,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “That I can never give her anything like what she gave me. That I never properly said thank you. But I maintain this. We maintain this. Even though I can’t do it with her anymore, I can make who she was eternal.” Isaac started to fiddle with his hands, a nervous tick Till had never seen before. “Every time I fire the gun she left me, every time I fix a motorbike, every time I mess it up even worse, every time I care for someone in this base… that menace of a woman is right there. Makes breathing easier.“

He groaned softly and stood up, stepping toward Till and raising a hand to ruffle his hair, ignoring his weak complaints. “I know I’m rambling here. I just wanted to say that losing someone is different for everyone. We all process grief differently. But I think one thing is the same: we all need to find what that loss means for us, and what we can build from it. For me, it’s this. Fixing motorcycles, tending to the legacy she left behind. It’s how I keep her alive inside me and transform the loss into something beautiful I can share. It’s my own masterpiece.”

Isaac let out a soft huff. “We end up being artists in the most random ways possible. You, of all people, probably understand that more than me… who knows? Maybe whatever you find that helps you, can help someone else, the same way a song or a painting can. We all become artists of our grief, I guess. Creating our own masterpieces out of what’s left.”

Isaac finally dropped his hand, his expression softening into something weary and sincere. “I know I’m asking for a lot, but can you keep trying a bit longer? I know you can handle it.”

The question hung in the air, thick with the scent of oil and old memories. Till looked away, feeling the phantom weight of Ivan’s arms, the cold emptiness of the spot by the workbench. It would be so easy to let that coldness swallow him whole.

But then his eyes found Isaac again–the quiet plea in his expression, the grease permanently into his knuckles. The thought shifted, turning inward as he thought of Ivan. He was the only one who carried the full weight of who he had been–his low voice, the specific way he’d shake his head, the memories that existed nowhere else. To let that coldness win would be to let Ivan vanish twice, first from the world, and then from memory. It would be too sad to let the man leave this world behind and be forgotten, when he had meant so much to him.

A long, slow breath escaped him, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He gave a single, sharp nod.

“Yeah,” Till said, his voice rough but clear. “Yeah, I can keep trying.”

He did not look behind, but for some reason, he could feel the ghost smiling.

.

In year five, he started building his own bike. It was a messy procedure, and the thing initially looked like it would fall apart with the slightest wind, but it was his, and that was all that mattered. He had few things to call his own in those days.

In year six, he started to search for Mizi with an almost desperate focus. He had long since let go of his romantic feelings for her, but she was still one of his dearest friends. He wanted to find her and talk about everything and nothing. He wanted to hold her in his arms as they processed everything that had happened together. He wanted to look at her and say that while everyone called her a witch, a title alone could not define a person's entire existence. She was so much more than that to him. But if he could call her anything, it would be family.

Also in year six, the ghost began to appear kinder in his memory. With that shift, many things started to fall into place. Ivan hadn't just been condescending; he had been afraid, lonely, and sad. His provocations were the clumsy tools of a boy who was terrified and starved for a connection he didn't know how to ask for. Till wished with everything he had that he could see the man once more, hold him, and say how much he missed him. No one talked about how hard it was to have so much love for someone who wasn’t there to receive it. He wanted to say that the days were not the same without him and that everything felt a little less perfect, that if he could, he would never let go of him again.

In year seven, the ghost left, and he cut his own hair with uncertain hands. He felt different, however, despite the fact he had long since grown older than Ivan, a part of him would always be a little boy running around, looking for him.

His search for one family led him to another. He found them in a museum made of lost things. They were small and lost and so very much like him. He built an entire family once more, and made sure to keep all of his old friends alive through the stories he told about them.

In year seven, he finally started singing again. A song for the love of his life began to be written.

In year seven, the clock started ticking again.

.

The warmth of Ivan’s hands left his skin not long after Till stopped begging him to wake up.

It was bad. There was so, so much blood. It was bad.

Help arrived long after Ivan had fallen silent.

They pried Till away to lift Ivan onto a stretcher, the scene dissolving into a chaos of shouted orders and frantic voices. Isaac barked commands, Dewey tried to talk to him, but Till heard nothing. His world had narrowed to the horrific sight of Ivan bleeding out, the white sheets rapidly drenching in crimson. A primal urge screamed at him to latch onto Ivan and never let go, but he forced it down, knowing he had to let the medics work–even as he watched the shallow rise and fall of Ivan's chest grow weaker by the second.

“Till, I need you to breathe. Come on.”

Dewey’s words cut through the haze, and Till realized his own chest was heaving in a frantic, ragged rhythm. A gasp tore from him, violent and involuntary, and it burned, a sharp sting of grief despite being physically unharmed. The only one hurt was Ivan. Ivan was dying–

A small hand tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. He looked down to see Mizi, her eyes clear and present, more alive than she’d been in the last hours. It shattered the last of his composure.

Before he knew what he was doing, his knees buckled and he collapsed, burying his face in her shoulder. He clutched her hard, his body wracked with the helpless, unrestrained sobs of a child.

After a moment of hesitation, she hugged him back, which only made him cry harder.

“Mizi, I–He–” The words were choked, mangled by all he was feeling. He couldn't form the sentence. I saw him dying. I held him as he left.

“I know. Shh, I know.”

“His eyes,” Till gasped, the memory fresh, “His eyes went empty, Mizi. Just empty. And I just stood there. I did nothing.” He pulled back, the last word filled with self-loathing, pleading with her to understand the magnitude of his failure. “What if he dies? What if he’s gone and I had to let him go again, even when I swore–I promised myself I wouldn't.”

Mizi’s hands came up to frame his face, her touch surprisingly firm, forcing him to look at her. “Till. Look at me. It’s not your fault.”

Till dissolved into a mess of choked sobs and restrained hiccups. He’d hooked his hands into Mizi’s clothes, holding as if she would disappear otherwise.

He didn’t know how long it took until his breathing evened out, but by the time it did, he just felt unbearably tired. Everything was empty by then, the humans safely rescued and all the guards long dead. It was only him, Mizi and Dewey there..

Till hesitantly pulled back.

“I don’t know what I will do if he dies,” he admitted weakly. “I can’t go through that again.”

He wasn't talking about physical survival. He meant the core of him, the part that could still form an attachment, that could still love–that would not survive being shattered a second time. It was unfair. To just get him back only to lose him again. The world was simply far too cruel.

Mizi’s hand found his, her fingers lacing through his with a quiet certainty, as she leaned her head on his shoulder. It didn't fix anything, but he did feel a little better. If anyone knew what he was feeling, it was her.

"It's not over yet," Dewey said, his voice low as he took a step forward, his gaze steady on Till. "He's still breathing."

Till looked up, meeting Dewey's eyes. The words didn't spark hope–hope was far too dangerous, too flammable a substance to handle in his current state. But they did spark something else: purpose.

Ivan was fighting. Even now, his body was clinging to life.

Till took a deep, shuddering breath, the first one that felt like it truly reached his lungs.

“I… want to go see him.”

He would go there and hold his hand. He would go there and be near him until he opened his eyes again. He would go there and never ever leave, because that was the only place in the world he wanted to be. If Ivan was fighting, Till would make sure he wasn’t alone.

.

Till stood right outside Ivan’s room. They had told him an hour ago that Ivan was stable enough to have visits.

He took a deep breath before opening the door and seeing him there. Pale, face scrunched as if in pain, chest barely moving.

In one moment he was there, and in the next, he felt cold rain on his face and saw his own terrified expression staring back from a puddle of blood on the floor.

He barely made it to the trash can before he vomited.

.

Till spent most of his time in the infirmary waiting.

He was there so often that the medical staff had given up on pushing him to rest, now bringing him food and letting him stay. He slept on the other bed, ate what they brought, and more often than not, kept his hand wrapped around Ivan’s, gently caressing it. He spent most of his time telling him everything he had missed, because by now he knew Ivan was terribly lonely. Every so often, he checked for a pulse, even though the machines said his heart was beating fine. Till needed to feel it for himself–needed to keep his hand on Ivan’s chest or wrist. If he didn't, he simply couldn't settle.

Till slept little, ate less, and felt anxious all the time. His thoughts had long stopped spiraling in the "what ifs"–What if he doesn't wake up? What if he dies? What if I need to let him go again? What if I lose him again?–and had started to settle over their relationship.

He had done that a lot back when the man’s ghost first appeared, but it had been different then. Back then, he had mulled over Ivan’s actions: why he stole things from him, why he followed him, why he had come back when they ran away long, long ago. Now, he wondered why their relationship only seemed to hurt them.

He softly grazed the scars on his neck with his uninjured hand, then looked at Ivan’s form, which was filled with scars as well. He had noticed the ones on his arms, but those on his chest and back were new to him. He didn't know what kind of face he had made when the doctors told him about them, but it must have been bad enough considering the pitying looks he received from them.

Till held Ivan's hand tighter and wondered why they only seemed to hurt each other in their attempts to stay together.

More horribly, he found that he didn’t mind. He would gain another set of scars if that’s what was needed. He could lose an arm, considering he had another one. He would sacrifice much of himself if it meant Ivan could stay. If he never had to let him go again, that was all he needed.

With a shallow gasp, he urged the tears threatening to fall to go back.

At this point in time, Till was used to crying over Ivan.

First, it was in those stupid fights where the boy would hit him in the right place, enough for the pain to be so profound it manifested as tears. Then it was when he came back after their attempts to run away. Maybe it was shame, maybe it was the way Ivan looked at him like he had just broken his heart, that day he just needed to cry in an empty room. Then, it was the moment he died and all those years after.

But he wasn’t going to cry over him now. He couldn't. If he cried, it would be too much like grieving him before he was even dead, so he wouldn't do it. He had already done that once, he wouldn't do it again.

Instead, he kept sitting in an uncomfortable chair right beside him, fighting back the silent tears wanting to slide down his cheeks, just wondering if he would be the only one left once again–

“Hey, Till.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and recognized Isaac there. He looked tired, but then again, he always looked like that. “The kids are asking for you. Do you mind going to see them?”

Till’s hand squeezed Ivan’s, seeing the trick for what it was. There was nothing besides his kids that would draw him from this room, so Isaac mentioned them every once in a while to make him go somewhere else. Till recognized the tactic, but he could never not worry about them, so he fell for it willingly. “You’ll stay and look out for him, then? Please?”

“Sure,” Isaac agreed readily, already sitting in the other chair. He looked at Till with a furrowed brow. “How are you holding up?”

Till shrugged. “Better.”

“If you need anything, you know where to find me, yeah?”

He offered a weak smile as a show of gratitude and, throwing shame out the window, stood up to push Ivan’s bangs back with his hand, landing a quick peck on his forehead, muttering a low, “I’ll be back soon.”

“Hopefully not so soon,” Isaac muttered, which Till ignored. “Remember to eat lunch with them. They miss you, you know.”

“I will.”

“Sure, sure.”

Till moved towards the door, but before leaving, he said, “Isaac.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

The man smiled, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. “Anytime.”

As he closed the door, the walk to the common room seemed both too long and too short. Each step away from Ivan’s bedside sent a ripple of anxiety through him. Yet, the distant sound of children's voices approaching also created a different kind of pull. Against his own expectations, their familiar noise began to ease the tight knot of worry in his chest.

Most of the kids from the base spent their days together in that room. While they all had their own quarters, and some preferred the quiet, the children under his care always gravitated to the common room, as if a second apart from each other would kill them. Besides, it was more spacious and properly equipped with toys to distract them.

Till pushed the heavy door open to find a surprisingly quiet space, likely because it was lunchtime. Aside from the kids he considered his own, he saw two other familiar faces playing a card game with one of the base's adults. His eyes, however, were drawn to the corner where a little girl sat hunched over, her face buried in her knees as she hugged her chest. A woman with long red hair knelt beside her, speaking in low, unsuccessful tones.

He didn't have long to ponder the scene, as a small weight suddenly attached itself to his leg. He looked down to find Black, already clinging to him.

The children on the base went by the simple, temporary color-codes assigned to them, to let them have the liberty to ponder the names they would want to have when they get older. Dewey had explained it was a way to reclaim a fundamental right, because the segyein always named them like property, but for ancient humans, a name held profound power. It was an identity, a claim to a soul.

Till had thought it was a dumb idea to call them by colors, so he had immediately asked the blond boy, the oldest one, what he wanted to be called. The immediate, enthusiastic answer had been "Metratoon 3000”, leaving him with not much choice but to oblige to the norm, so, for now, his kids were colors: Black, Yellow, Silver, Pink and Maroon.

A small hand tugged at his pants. "You're here," Black mumbled softly into the fabric of his leg, her voice muffled. Maybe it was because she took after Sua, but her gentle tone never failed to get a smile out of him.

"I am," Till said, his voice rough from disuse. He gently pried the girl off, only to crouch down to her level and pat her head. "Where are the others?"

Before the little girl could answer, a flash of silver darted forward. "You always hog him!" Silver complained, giving her sister a gentle but firm push on the shoulder, while hugging his other leg.

Black's eyes widened, her lower lip trembling instantly. "Do not!"

"Do too!"

A squabble was about to erupt, but Maroon was already there, rolling his eyes. He stepped between them, placing a hand on each of their backs.

“What happened to good morning and hello?" the little boy said, a teasing tone in his voice, as he picked Black up gently. Till took the cue and straightened up, easily scooping Silver into his arms as she pouted and muttered a weak good morning.

“Good morning to you too, princess,” he chuckled softly, shifting Silver's weight on his hip. “Where are Yellow and Pink?”

Maroon, ever the responsible one, nodded towards the cafeteria doors. "They went ahead to secure a table. They said if we take too long, the cafeteria gets too full and we have to sit separately."

"Smart," Till acknowledged, letting their little group begin to move. As they walked, Silver, now happily perched, launched into an animated account of her day–how she had beaten Pink at a racing game and the things they had learned in class. Black occasionally chimed in with corrections and additions, their brief fight already forgotten in the excitement of having Till's attention.

They reached the bustling entrance of the cafeteria, and Till immediately spotted a shock of bright pink hair. Pink was waving enthusiastically from a large table in the corner.

No sooner had he caught his eye than she slid from his seat and darted through the crowd, wrapping his arms tightly around Till's waist in a brief, fierce hug before quietly slipping his hand into his and leading him back to the table.

As they all settled in, Yellow looked up at him, his large eyes full of a quiet concern that seemed too old for him. "How's your boyfriend?"

Till sighed, already used to the boy’s teasing. Apparently he was an angel to everyone else, so no one believed him when he said that boy was the devil incarnate. "He's not my boyfriend."

From across the table, Silver, already sitting and devouring her food, mumbled a quiet, "He totally is.”

"He is not," Till insisted, feeling the familiar, flustered heat creep up his neck.

Maroon smirked. "So, you don't want him to be?"

"That's not it–" The words were out of Till's mouth before he could stop them, and he groaned as the kids' faces lit up with glee. He was immediately met with a chorus of Oohs and Ewws.

"He's the same as ever. Still recovering." Till finished, deflecting, but the small, reluctant smile on his own face betrayed him. Needing a distraction, he picked up his spoon and focused on his soup.

The conversation moved on to the small details of their day–lessons learned, games played–until the plates were clean. As Till began gathering them, a small, quiet voice cut through the clatter.

“Can we go see him?”

Till froze.

Pink was looking at him, his large, earnest eyes wide and unblinking. The question, so simple and direct, pinned him in place. Pink rarely spoke, and even more rarely asked for anything for himself. That alone made Till’s instinct scream to say yes.

He had told them all, after all. He’d explained in the plainest terms he could manage what it meant to be a clone. While the two youngest–Black and Silver–seemed to treat it as a curious but distant fact, Pink had listened with a deeper, more personal intensity. It was no surprise he was the one to ask. He’d probably want to see Mizi, too, but that was an impossible option for now, given how she was still battling her own demons. They were all too afraid to think of what would happen if she saw a living echo of herself or Sua.

When Till’s silence stretched too long, Pink leaned forward, his small hands clasped tightly on the table. “I want to see him,” he insisted, his voice soft but unwavering. “Just once. Please?”

The little boy didn’t seem too bothered by it, so Till decided it couldn’t hurt.

“You know what? Sure. Why not.”

The words had left his mouth with a startling ease, but now, standing in front of the opened door of Ivan’s room, Till felt the full weight of that impulsive decision. Silver clutched his left hand, Black his right, while an excited Pink darted past him to hover at the foot of the bed. Maroon and Yellow stood just in front of him, hesitant.

It was Isaac who broke the silence, with a raised eyebrow. “I see you brought the entire kindergarten with you.”

“Shut up. Pink wanted to see him,” Till retorted, chin pointing to the boy who was already staring at Ivan with an unnerving intensity. The man was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. Till imagined him waking up to find a small, pink-haired child studying him like a rare specimen, and the image of Ivan jolting awake, bug-eyed with confusion staring right back, made a faint, involuntary smile touch his lips.

To his surprise, Black let go of his hand. With a little huff, as if steeling herself, she marched to the side of the bed. She leaned in, her nose almost touching Ivan's cheek, scrutinizing his face with a profound seriousness. Then, in a move that defied all expectation, she clambered up onto the mattress and settled herself against his side, her head resting gently on his shoulder.

It made a strange kind of sense, Till supposed. Sua had always seemed to like Ivan a lot, or at least tolerated him with a fondness she reserved for few others. Some of that inherent trust, it seemed, had been woven into her clone's very being.

Prompted by her sister's boldness and the fact that the two were rarely apart for long, Silver immediately released Till's other hand and scrambled up onto the opposite side of the bed, curling up against Ivan's other arm like a contented cat.

The bed, which had seemed so large with just Ivan in it, was now rapidly filling up with small, quiet children.

Pink, who had been watching the entire scene with a thoughtful expression, finally spoke. His voice was a soft, matter-of-fact whisper in the quiet room. “I like him.”

“How? You barely saw him, much less talked,” Maroon pointed out, going near the end of the bed as well, taking a seemingly unimpressed Yellow with him.

Pink didn’t look away from Ivan’s sleeping form. “I don’t need to,” he stated simply. “He seems nice.”

The declaration hung in the air, so profound in its innocence that it left Till momentarily breathless. Nice was perhaps the last word he would ever have used to describe Ivan, a creature full of odd mannerisms. Yet, seeing him now, utterly vulnerable with two children tucked trustingly against his sides and a third vouching for his character, a strange, warm ache bloomed in Till’s chest.

Seeing him surrounded by the kids Till called his family, as if they found him safe and warm to be around, sparked something inside him he didn’t know was missing until now. I guess I always wanted them to meet him, he thought, his heart squeezing with a sudden, overwhelming tightness that threatened to spill from his eyes.

Fearing he might actually cry, he strode forward to break the spell. He approached the bed and kicked the baseboard gently, the tap too soft to bother any of its occupants.

"Hey, you idiot," Till said, his voice rougher than he intended, thick with the emotion he was fighting back. "Wake up. There are people here wanting to meet you."

As expected, nothing.

Ivan remained still, lost in a sleep too deep for a gentle kick and a rough voice to penetrate. A flicker of unexpected disappointment curled in Till’s gut. He hadn't realized how much he'd wanted Ivan to see this until now.

Then Yellow, who had been watching with a clinical detachment, piped up. "I think I saw his hand moving."

A hush fell over the small group. All eyes, wide and expectant, snapped back to Ivan’s still form. They waited, the air thick with anticipation. A few seconds stretched into a minute. But Ivan did not stir. The faint rise and fall of his chest remained the only movement.

The collective hope deflated visibly. Silver sighed, snuggling closer, as she held on to his arm more tightly.

Meanwhile, Till reached out, his hand hovering over Ivan's head for a moment before he gently carded his fingers through the dark hair. ”Guess it’s not today either, huh.”

Pink, who had been studying the entire exchange with his characteristic intensity, looked up at Till, his large eyes filled with a hopeful gleam. "Can we come back tomorrow to check?"

“Yeah. We can." Till said, his voice low so as not to disturb the peace. "For now though, we need to go. The staff will be here for a checkup soon."

He moved first to Black, who had succumbed to sleep, her breathing deep and even against Ivan's side. Her small hands were still curled tightly into his form. Till loosened her finger with a gentle touch, then carefully slid his hands under her, lifting her into his arms. She barely stirred, her head lolling onto his shoulder with a soft sigh.

Silver, however, was not so compliant. "No," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep and stubbornness. She tightened her grip on Ivan's arm, burying her face against him. "Stay."

"Silver, come on," Till coaxed, shifting Black's weight, not sure why she was so attached to the man all of a sudden. Maybe she took too much after him as well. "He's not going anywhere. We can come back."

"But we barely stayed here," she whined, but her protest was losing its energy. With a little more coaxing, and a firm look from her two older brothers, she reluctantly untangled herself and slid off the bed, though her lower lip jutted out in a pronounced pout.

Pink was the last to move from his spot at the foot of the bed. He didn't whine or argue, but the disappointment on his face was a palpable thing, his shoulders slumping as he looked back at Ivan's still form one last time.

"Tomorrow," Till promised again.

Pink nodded slowly and finally took Maroon's offered hand. As they filed out of the room, Till cast one last glance over his shoulder, before going to take the kids back.

They made their way back to the common room, the journey a quiet one, with none of them wanting to wake up Black. Till quietly waited for them to get inside, and one by one, he said his goodbyes, receiving sleepy hugs from Black and a still-pouting Silver, a solemn nod from Pink, and a quiet "See you later" from Maroon.

As the children finally dispersed, his eyes were drawn back to the corner once more. The little girl was still there, curled in the exact same spot. The woman beside her was still sitting there as well, her focus entirely on a sleek, glowing device–the same kind he’d seen Isaac using constantly. She was probably working.

A knot of concern tightened in Till’s stomach. The girl hadn't moved. That meant she’d likely missed lunch entirely.

When Yellow lingered nearby, Till nodded subtly towards the corner. "Hey," he asked quietly, "who is the new kid? Is she alright?"

Yellow followed his gaze, his expression turning uncharacteristically somber. "She came to the base a few months ago," he explained in a low voice. "Rescued by that woman with her. But she doesn't talk or play. I heard the rumors..." Yellow hesitated, his young voice dropping to a whisper. "Apparently, her dad sacrificed himself to save her.”

The words landed like a physical blow in Till's chest. The air left his lungs as a deep, profound sadness settled over him, imagining how it felt to be a kid and go through that.

He made a quiet decision then, as he pulled Yellow into a brief, tight hug. He would talk to her eventually. She shouldn't have to sit in that silence alone.

As he turned to leave, he cast one last, sweeping look over the common room. His eyes passed over the colorful, moving bodies and, almost by chance, landed once more on that quiet corner.

At that exact moment, the little girl looked up, and a pair of familiar, dark, piercingly intense eyes stared directly back at him.

Till froze as the door fell shut, his breath catching in his throat.

It was absurd. A trick of the light, surely. It would be insane, impossible, to think that another clone of Ivan had found its way there. Right?

He shook his head, physically dispelling the thought, and quickly turned away, the girl's familiar gaze burning inside his mind as he left.

.

Till visited Mizi regularly.

She resided in the infirmary, a decision driven by severe malnutrition and, more critically, by the violent episodes where she ended up hurting herself. The medical staff didn't believe it was a conscious act of self-harm, but rather that she, sometimes, would break and destroy objects around her, which would end up resulting in accidental injuries.

Most days, however, she was quiet. A hollow silence so profound it was as if she had already ceased to exist. He had tried talking to her, of course–pleading, reminiscing, begging–but his words seemed to slide off her.

The truth was, Till felt utterly unequipped to help her. He was a man held together by fraying wires and stubborn will, so he was hardly a model of mental stability himself. Therefore, he fell back on the only thing he could offer: his presence.

On her quiet days, he would simply sit beside her, filling the sterile silence with mundane, inconsequential chatter. He'd tell her about the food in the cafeteria, a funny thing one of the kids had said, or the changing light outside her window. He wasn't sure if she heard him, but he hoped so.

On the bad days, when the storm was forming, he would move to hold her, wrapping his arms around her thrashing form, absorbing her blows into his own chest. When her fingers would claw at her own hair–a panic that always spiked when her wig was displaced–he would gently, patiently, pry her hands loose and hold them in his.

It wasn't much, in fact, it seemed like holding water in his bare hands. But it was all he had. He had made a promise to himself, a silent vow he repeated every time he walked into her room: he would be there for her, in whatever way she needed, for as long as she wanted him around.

He could only hope that was enough.

.

.

.

Something must have happened while Ivan was away, considering the fact that, when he opened his eyes, there was a kid he had never once seen in his life, on top of him, staring at his soul.

“Oh,” the girl said, her voice matter-of-fact. “You’re awake.”

Ivan simply stared back, his mind scrambling to process the situation. A child. A strange child. On his bed. Unsure of what to do, his sleep-addled brain settled on the most basic of social scripts: politeness.

“Hello…?” he tried, his voice dry.

“Hello,” she smiled back, a small, serene gesture. “I should probably tell dad you woke up.”

“Who is Dad?” Ivan asked, frowning. He wasn't familiar with the name, and the last time he was awake… the last thing he remembered was… Till. A cold, sharp dread pierced his chest. “Do you know what happened to Till? Did he–is he–”

He couldn’t even force the words past his lips.

“He is fine,” the girl said, her calmness a contrast to his rising panic. “Sad, but fine. He was here a few minutes ago, but went to do grownup stuff.”

A wave of sheer, unadulterated relief so powerful it left him dizzy washed over Ivan. He sank back into the pillows, his head spinning. Alive. Till is alive. His eyes refocused on the girl, really seeing her now.

“Was he here?” Ivan managed, his voice softer now.

The girl nodded. “He comes a lot. He brings the others, too. They like you.” She tilted her head, studying him. “My name is Black.”

“I’m Ivan. Nice to meet you.” He paused, his mind, though clearing, still grappling with the surreal situation. “Do I know you?”

“Nope,” she said, popping the ‘p’.

His thoughts were still sluggish, but they were beginning to function again, parsing her earlier words, he decided to ask once more, "Who is Dad?"

“Well, dad is dad,” she replied unhelpfully.

"Right," he nodded, old habits resurfacing as he raised a heavy hand to gently pat her head. "And who are the others, then?"

"My siblings. We all come with dad to see you." She leaned a little closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Silver was here a minute ago, but she got bored and left."

Ivan filed away the strange, color-coded names. "Got bored with me, did she?" he asked, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. It was a strangely normal concern to have in such a bizarre situation.

Black nodded solemnly. "She said you weren't doing anything. But I think it's nice. They are too noisy sometimes and you're very quiet. I like that."

Before he could think of a response, the soft hiss of the door sliding open cut through the room. A familiar head of silver hair peeked around the doorframe, however, it was not from the one he knew, but rather from a little girl, her expression one of immediate, open-mouthed surprise.

"He is awake!" She exclaimed, and then she was gone, her footsteps pounding down the hallway accompanied by a shouted, "Dad! Dad! Your boyfriend is awake!"

“See what I mean? Noisy.” She said, her small hand patting his arm in a gesture that was likely meant to be comforting, as she let go of him and jumped to the floor, going to follow the other girl.

Considering how loud the little girl–Silver–was, Ivan busied himself watching the door, expecting someone to appear there very soon. It was like his whole body was straining for something and he wouldn’t relax until he finally got it. Seen it. Seeing Till.

When the seconds stretched into minutes, an illogical, hysterical part of Ivan thought, He left me. I’ll never see him again. Because that’s what would make sense. Ivan tried to die again, knowing Till would be mad. He was probably fuming now and Ivan just knew that he, himself, wasn’t enough to make him stay. Unfortunately, Ivan always needed Till more than the other way around. It had always been like that.

Before Ivan could decide what it all meant, the one Ivan wanted to see the most walked right through the door.

He looked… awful. Eyebags bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair was a chaotic mess, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, evidence of his frantic rush to the room. He looked like a man who had been living a nightmare.

Ivan’s breath caught. He had never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.

“Till,” he choked out, his fingers twisting in the sheets, knuckles bleaching white with the force of his grip.

The man in question strode forward, reaching for him, the same way Ivan was already reaching back, and not a single minute later, Ivan was being pushed back against the bed, feeling Till’s weight settle on top of him.

Ivan's entire being shivered, his whole body tingling pleasantly at the proximity. He could feel Till’s breath near his lips, his heartbeat against his own. He pressed impossibly closer.

The noise Till let out at the impact was probably supposed to be a laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. Brokenly, he whispered, “You came back.”

Then, all of a sudden, he left the embrace.

The loss of contact was a physical ache, a sudden chill that seeped into Ivan’s bones where Till’s warmth had been. He let his hands fall back onto the sheets, as he watched Till collapsing into the chair beside the bed.

For a long moment, silence reigned as Ivan traced the lines of exhaustion and distress on Till’s face, committing every detail to memory. He was so absorbed in the sight of him that he flinched when he finally spoke, his voice trembling.

“You can’t keep doing this to me.”

Till sounded tired. Defeated. His stomach lurched at the sight of such palpable sadness on the man he loved the most, but he kept his breathing steady.

“You can’t keep doing this to me,” Till repeated, the words barely a whisper. He looked down at his own hands, turning them over as if searching for answers in the lines of his palms. “I can’t do it again, Ivan. Please.”

“Till–”

“No, listen to me,” Till insisted, his voice softening into something desperate and pleading. “You and I… we’ve survived on luck. And I don’t know how much we have left. If you do something like that again, I don’t… I don’t know if our luck will hold. So please.” He finally looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “There is nothing else I want more than to stay by your side, but I don’t think I will be able to handle doing so if you keep offering your life as a bargaining chip. Promise me. Promise you won’t do anything like that again. Please, I’m begging you.”

“I can’t promise that.”

The admission was too easy to make.

Till didn’t know. Ivan would die for him again and again. He would do crazy, crazy things, until there was nothing left of him, because Till was his only choice in that wretched life of his. “You don’t know what I’d do for you.”

“That’s the problem here. I don’t want you doing anything for me. I just want you to stay alive. That’s all I ask of you.”

Ivan huffed. It’s ironic how the first thing Till asks of him is the only thing he can’t give.

“Till, don’t you see? There is no version of this where I stand by and watch you fall. There is no ‘me’ without you. So no, I can’t promise I won’t do it again, because I surely will. If it’s between my life and yours, I will choose yours. Every time.”

A single tear finally escaped and started to track a path through Till’s cheek, at the same moment an ugly smile formed on his face. “You are a fucking coward.”

“I know,” he agreed, silently.

“Then, you can’t complain if I do the same to you, right?”

Ivan’s eyes stared wide with surprise. “You can’t–”

“Why not?” Till challenged. “It’s fine when you do it, but if it’s me, suddenly I can't?”

“But this is different, Till–”

“How is it different?” Till’s voice was low, dangerous, his tear-streaked face a mask of defiance.

“Because it just is!” Ivan’s voice rose, frustration and fear clawing at his throat. “You’re–“

“I’m what? More important?” Till shot back, surging to his feet, the chair screeching backwards. “Your life is worth less?”

“That’s not what I’m saying–”

“Then what are you saying, Ivan? Spell it out for me! What makes your sacrifice okay and mine unthinkable?”

“Because I love you.”

Silence fell over them.

“How long?” Till quietly asked.

Ivan simply took a big breath and looked at the ceiling, the strength going out of him, as he looked at the man beside him once more. “Always.”

“What?”

He swallowed, ignoring the shiver that ran through him when Till looked at him. “I’ve always loved you.”

Till made a choked noise, lips slightly parted as he stared at Ivan. “...Always?”

Ivan was done. Done pretending. Done hiding. He should’ve just screamed that at Till long ago, all his insecurities be damned.

“I love you,” he croaked. “I’m in love with you. Always have been. That’s why I will never, ever, let you get hurt if I can help it, okay?”

The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, a strange, disbelieving laugh escaped Till. It was a soft, broken sound. He hid his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. A beat passed and when he finally spoke, his voice was muffled, soft. "It's alright. I guess I forgive you, after all."

Ivan stared, utterly bewildered.

Till raised his head from his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, but a new, startling clarity shone within them.

"Because. I would do the same," he said, his voice steady and sure. "Since I love you, too."

Ivan blinked once. Twice. Registering the words.

“You love me?” he asked, in disbelief. You don’t love me.

“What do you think?”

“What do you mean, you love me?” He asked again.

Till shrugged. “I love you means I love you.”

“But you…” you love Mizi. And even if he didn’t, then he loved someone else. Not Ivan. Never Ivan. “You can’t.”

Till looked back at him like he was dumb. “Well I do.”

“No you don’t.”

Till laughed weakly. “What are we? Twelve? I do love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize, and how I should’ve said it sooner, but it’s the truth. These last few years without you have been terrible, and ever since you came back, I’ve never been happier.”

“But… you love Mizi.”

“Loved,” Till gently corrected, “She is my friend and I hold her dearly in my heart, but the one I want to spend the rest of my life with is you.”

“You don’t love me, Till. This isn’t how this works.”

Ivan always looked, and Till averted his eyes. Ivan approached, and Till ran away. Ivan was a monster, a freak of nature, and Till was the most beautiful, untouchable being in this wretched universe. That was the unchangeable law of their world. There was no universe in which Till loved him in the same desperate, all-consuming way.

“For the last seven years,” Till began, his voice low, “you’ve never left me. Not really. I’ve been tormented by you.”

Ivan went perfectly still.

“After you fell, my mind just broke,” Till continued, his gaze fixed on a point past Ivan, lost in the memory. “I’d see you everywhere. In the corner of my eye, standing in the rain, sitting across from me at a campfire. You’d be whole, sometimes. Sometimes you’d be… as you were when I last saw you. Bloody. Dying.” He swallowed hard. “You’d talk to me. You’d ask me why I left you. You’d tell me it was cold. For seven years, Ivan, the ghost of you, has been my only constant companion.”

Till didn’t forget me.

A strange, wet sound broke the silence.

Ivan, even surprising himself, started to cry.

Ivan doesn’t cry in front of people. In fact, Ivan doesn’t cry, ever. But here he was, standing there, right in front of Till, tears slipping down his cheeks. Despite that, however, his lips were stretched into a wide, trembling smile. Tears streamed down his face unabated as he looked at Till with a kind of wretched, euphoric wonder.

“Why are you smiling, you weirdo?” Till whispered, unmistakably fond.

Ivan let out a choked sob that was half a laugh. “You can’t be in love with this,” he breathed, gesturing vaguely at himself, at the dark, obsessive love that had apparently seeped into Till’s very mind and festered there.

A terrible, selfish part of him was ecstatic at the messed up news. He had thought he would be forgotten, instead, he had become his ghost, his constant companion. He had plagued Till’s mind as thoroughly as Till had possessed his heart.

Till watched him, this man smiling through his tears, and a resigned, answering smile touched his own lips. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing away a tear from Ivan’s cheek.

“Unfortunately for the both of us,” Till said, his voice laced with a fond exhaustion that spoke of years of struggle and acceptance, “I am.”

The confession should have made him happy, but it only ignited a final, desperate panic inside him. This couldn't be real. It was a trick, a moment of shared insanity. He had to make Till see the truth. He wouldn’t be able to take it if, years down the line, Till finally realized his feelings had always been about guilt and never about love. It would break him.

“You can’t like me. I’m awful, Till.” The words were a plea for denial.

A wry, tired smirk tugged at Till’s mouth. “Seems I have spectacularly bad taste in men, then.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Ivan insisted, his voice rising with a frantic edge. “I stole from you. Your food, your things. I took whatever I wanted.”

“But you always gave it back,” Till countered, his voice unnervingly calm.

“I hurt you,” Ivan pushed on, the memory of his own past self trying to get Till’s attention making him flinch. “Multiple times. I left bruises.”

“And I forgive you,”

Ivan let out a depreciating laugh, the sound hollow. He was running out of ammunition. “I’m selfish, Till. Truly. I’m not an emotional person. I rarely consider what others think or feel. My world… it’s always been very, very small. It only ever had room for one person.”

He looked at Till, begging him to understand the monstrous truth of his own nature. “I only ever cared about what I wanted. And I wanted you. It is love, but it’s an ugly one.”

Till was silent for a long moment, simply holding Ivan’s gaze, until, finally, he spoke, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

“The last few years, all I did was think about you. And although some things you did really hurt me, I realized we were both just dealing with things the only way we knew how.” He said, sadly picking Ivan’s hand up on his own. Till’s hands were warm. “I realized that if we could have said some things to each other earlier, maybe the ending would’ve been different. So, I will bare my heart to you now.”

He took a deep breath.

“You say you are the awful one. But Ivan, looking back… who was more anxious in our relationship? Who put in more effort? Who spent more time caring for, protecting, the other? Was it you, or was it me?” He squeezed Ivan’s hand. “If you look back, honestly, I’m the one who fell short. And that never seemed to bother you, did it? It’s the same for me. So I have only one question left. Do you love me?”

Ivan shakes his head, letting the words slide off him. “You don’t wish a life with me. No one wishes that.”

“Do you love me?“ Till asked again, more harshly, loudly.

“You can’t possibly–”

“Do. You. Love. Me?”

“I–I love you.”

“Good, because I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while now.”

“What–”

Ivan’s question was swallowed whole.

Their first kiss was everything it shouldn't be–a clumsy, desperate collision. They bumped noses, their teeth clicked together in a jarring shock, and Ivan could feel the damp salt of his own tears between their cheeks, because for some reason, the fact that this was happening only made him want to cry harder. It was a mess of angles and inexperience, a fumbling, awkward press of lips.

It was perfect. It was theirs.

When Till broke away, it was only for a heartbeat, a shared, gasping breath before he leaned in again. This time, different. They found their fit. Till’s mouth slotted against his with a newfound certainty, and Ivan felt his entire world narrow to this single, searing point of contact.

Till kissed like he lived–quick, but carefully. They were not soft, gentle pecks, but a series of rapid, ravenous, drawn-out kisses that stole the air from Ivan’s lungs and turned his head into cotton candy. It left Ivan feeling floaty and dizzy, his hands coming up to clutch at Till’s hair just to keep from drifting away.

They broke apart again, both breathing heavily. Ivan’s mind was a swirling fog, without a coherent thought forming.

“Till, are you–mmf–“

The sudden attack on his lips halted him once more. Till kissed him again, a firm, smiling kiss that brooked no argument, and Ivan could feel the curve of that smile against his own mouth. The feeling of it unraveled something deep inside him. It made him feel things, wonderful and terrifying things, things he had no name for, things that bloomed warm and bright in the hollowed-out spaces of his chest.

Whatever had felt missing inside him was gone now, replaced by a Till-shaped form.

A few seconds, a small eternity, passed before Ivan’s lungs screamed for air. He softened the plea into a weak punch against Till’s shoulder. Till relented, pulling away just enough for Ivan to drag in a ragged breath, but he stayed mere inches apart, his forehead resting against Ivan’s, his hands cupping his jaw as if Ivan were a mirage that would vanish if he lost physical contact for even a second.

“You look stupid.” Till whispered, even though he didn’t stop to look at anything else.

A disbelieving huff of air, almost a laugh, escaped Ivan. He felt raw, flayed open, more exposed than he had ever been. Yet under Till’s unwavering gaze, he didn't feel the need to hide it.

“You are the one who made me look this way,” Ivan managed, his own voice rough.

“I know,” Till said, a trace of a smile touching his lips. His thumb stroked the damp skin beneath Ivan’s eye, wiping away the last evidence of his tears. “I like it.”

Till leaned in once more and pressed his lips to Ivan’s forehead, a gesture so profoundly tender it made Ivan’s breath catch. And then he continued. He didn't stop. His mouth, soft and unwavering, brushed against Ivan’s left eyelid, closing it. Then the right. He moved down, placing a feather-light kiss on the bridge of his nose, then another on the apple of his cheek, tracing the path his tears had taken.

It was too much. This careful, reverent mapping of his face, this silent worship. A fractured sound escaped him, and then another. The dam broke. Ivan started to sob, for a reason not even he understood. Maybe it was because he never once thought he would have this.

“Till, I–” he sobbed, “I really love you.”

The statement came out of his mouth too quickly for something that shaped him in ways he could never even think were possible. He said those three words, but really, what he really meant to say was, it was all for you.

The smiles he practiced day after day, fingers pointing his lips upward to make it seem more soft, more human. How he came back after Till leaving, because there was never another choice in his eyes. Quiet nights he spent awake dissecting their collars apart, even if it hurt him, even if it scarred his skin, because he knew Till needed freedom the same way the stars need the sky and he wanted to be the one giving it to him.

Lie after lie that passed through his lips effortlessly, as if they were the only words he ever learned how to speak, because saying the truth would put Till in a complicated situation, and he never wanted that. The many, many times he woke up and decided to stand and keep going, even when all of them were in a cage. Even when he knew the only ending was death. Even when he knew the other boy would never, ever, look back at him.

It was all for him. It had always been.

But he knew he would do everything all over again, after all, if he closed his eyes, he could still smell the flowers and hear Till’s laugh. He could still see how his eyes sparkled in a way that put stars to shame, and that was all that mattered to him.

Ivan was sobbing and Till didn't know what to say to him. I love you seemed to barely scratch the surface of what he felt. There was so much he was willing to spill out from his soul, but he knew no matter how many words he used, it would never be enough to represent it. His chest felt tight, and his heart beat too fast, and he had no words to use. It was gratitude and fondness and tenderness and fear and sorrow and everything that made his life mixed together. Any language felt pitifully small, a child’s sketch trying to capture the grandeur of a cathedral. So he offered the simplest, truest thing he had.

"I'm glad to have met you."

The outcome had always been irrelevant. The confession was a truth that existed outside of time, untouched by bullets or blood or the cruel whims of fate. Whether they had fled together that day or he had bled out on the stage, whether he lived a long life or Till vanished into the mist–none of it would stain this fundamental truth. Ivan would have been happy to have known Till all the same, because it was only in the reflection of Till's eyes that he ever saw a self worth loving, and he would've never, ever traded it for anything in this world.

If he woke up tomorrow, five once more, he would've done everything again. He would've endured being left behind, his hand empty at his side. He would've endured how their gazes never, ever met. He would willingly take the bullet, feel the blood leave his veins, and he would even be willing to wake up once more and live, even if life terrified him. Because Till was there, and Till mattered and he loved him so much that it hurt, sometimes.

Till looked at him, this time and many more, with a gaze so tender that it made up for all the times he didn't. It felt right, to go through all that, if such warmth was directed at him now. He felt like it was more than he deserved. He felt loved. He felt whole. He felt like he finally reached home.

"Me too," Till said, and his expression gentled even further, as if his very soul was smiling. Their hands found each other, fingers lacing together with a mind of their own. The fit was perfect. It was marvelous to know they would never have to let go again. "I'm glad we found each other."

Ivan brought their joined hands to his lips, not in a grand gesture, but in a quiet one. His kiss was a whisper against Till’s knuckles, a seal upon a promise they’d spent a lifetime circling. He felt the faint tremor in Till’s hand, or perhaps it was in his own–he could no longer tell where he ended and Till began, and that was the most profound relief he had ever known.

For once, the world felt soft, like a memory.

The warmth of the light coming from the window was comforting. They were together, their hands warm with each other's presence. Till was looking at him with a tenderness he had never known, and Ivan knew this was just where he always wanted to be. And he felt… he felt…

He started to cry harder once more. It was so bad he started to have trouble speaking and enough for Till to start to fuss over him. Perhaps, all the tears he was holding until now were gathered for this pivotal moment.

Ivan cried for the ghost of a lonely, terrified boy in the slums, who expected nothing and received less. He cried with a desperate, aching wish that he could go back, kneel in the dirt before that hollow-eyed child, and hold him.

He would tell him, I see you. I see how much it hurts. I know you think you are invisible, that you are unlovable. But hang on. Just a little longer. It will hurt, and you will be so sad, and you will think it’s all for nothing. But it’s not. One day, someone will see you. Truly see you, even the worst part of you. He will look at you like you are the most precious thing in his universe. And you will believe it. It will be worth it. Every second of the pain will be worth it for the moment you finally feel whole.

Ivan felt Till’s arms wrap around him fully, holding him together as he fell apart. And in that embrace, Ivan understood that he was not just being loved by Till in this moment; he was being loved by every version of himself, across time, all at once. The lonely child, the desperate youth, the bleeding man on the stage–they were all finally being comforted, finally being told that their suffering had a purpose, and its name was this peace.

The tears continued until the storm within him subsided, leaving in its wake a profound, quiet exhaustion. He was hollowed out, but in the best way–cleansed, light. He leaned into Till’s hold, his face buried in the familiar space between Till’s neck and shoulder, breathing him in.

Till didn’t say anything else, just held him, his hand a steady, soothing rhythm on Ivan’s back, his own cheek resting against Ivan’s hair. He held him as if he had all the time in the world, as if there was nowhere else he would rather be than right here, beside him.

Oh, to love and to be loved back.

.

The first day Ivan was able to walk more than a few steps without support, he asked to go to see Mizi. Till, who had taken to hovering over him with the intensity of a mother hen, grew visibly tense.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Till said, frowning. "She's… not herself. Most days, it's like she's not even present."

But Ivan had simply offered a small, understanding smile. "That's just Mizi," he'd said, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did, because Till had let out a resigned sigh and caved immediately.

Even as they stood outside her door, Till was reluctant to leave him entirely. "I'll give you two space," he conceded, "but I'm staying right here. Just outside this door, alright?" His eyes searched Ivan's, full of a quiet worry. He leaned in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to Ivan's lips. "Promise you'll call me if anything happens."

"I promise," Ivan murmured, a little dazed. He was still acclimating to this new reality where he could kiss Till whenever he wanted. He was fairly certain that in this state, Till could ask him for anything and he'd agree without a second thought.

"Go on, then. Talk to her." Till gave him a soft smile and ruffled his hair before stepping back, leaning against the wall to stand guard.

Ivan took a deep, steadying breath and pushed the door open.

The Mizi inside was the same one he had seen in his final, fading moments before he got shot. The weariness had sunk deep into her bones, the sadness seeming to mold her very form. She sat by the window, the wig still perched unnaturally on her head. Her fingers absently twisted and pulled at its ends as she stared out at the window, her gaze so distant it was as if she were trapped somewhere else entirely–another place, another time, a happier memory she couldn't escape from.

Ivan moved quietly, settling onto the seat beside her. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until he finally broke it, his voice soft. "It’s been a very long time, hasn't it?"

Despite everything, it was still undeniably her. He could see the stubborn hints of her true pink hair peeking out from under the wig. And her eyes, though shadowed, were still that striking, beautiful shade of yellow.

She said nothing for a long while, her focus remaining on the world outside. Just as Ivan began to wonder if she'd heard him at all, she slowly turned her head. Her eyes, sad and tired, finally focused on him.

"I'm glad you're alive," she said, her voice a flat, quiet monotone.

For a reason he couldn't name, Ivan felt his chest squeeze tightly. The words felt like a monumental effort for her, a fragment of the old Mizi pushing through the fog. "I'm glad you are, too," he replied, the sincerity raw in his throat.

He hesitated, then asked the simple, impossible question. "How are you?"

Mizi let out a sound. It was meant to be a laugh, but it came out as an ugly, jaded thing, stripped of all humor and light, awful like nails on a chalkboard.

"How am I?" she repeated, the words dripping with a bitterness that almost made him flinch. Her eyes fixed on his. "Ivan, do you ever feel like you're the one who should have died instead?"

“Mizi, I–”

“Leave,” she cut him off, her voice flat and final. She was already turning her head away, her gaze seeking refuge outside the window once more, dismissing him entirely.

But Ivan couldn't. Not when she looked like that. Not when they had barely talked. He remained seated. "I'm not going."

It was the wrong thing to say.

A spark of something furious and alive flashed in her deadened eyes. Without a word, she snatched the thin pillow from behind her back and hurled it at him. It was a pathetic projectile, hitting his chest with a soft whump and falling uselessly to the floor.

"Get out," she hissed.

When he still didn't move, she grabbed the other pillow and threw it harder, her aim wild. "I said LEAVE!"

He saw the frantic look in her eyes, the panic of a cornered animal. He understood it.

Mizi’s hands scrambled across the bedside table, knocking over a cup of cold water, immediately breaking it. Then her fingers closed around a heavy book. A raw, guttural sound ripped from her throat as she launched it at his head.

This time, Ivan had to duck. The book slammed against the wall behind him with a deafening thud, pages fluttering like wounded birds.

As she thrashed, her hands, clenched into desperate fists, swept dangerously close to the shards of the broken cup on top of the drawer. With instinct overriding caution, Ivan surged forward and caught her wrists. "Stop," he said, his voice low and firm, trying to ground her. "You'll hurt yourself."

For a reason he couldn't fathom, that was the final trigger.

A raw, piercing scream tore from her throat–the sound of a mortally wounded animal, all pain and primal terror.

From the other side of the door, he heard Till shout his name, followed by the sound of the handle being shoved down.

"Everything is fine!" Ivan yelled over Mizi's screaming, his voice strained but commanding. "Don’t come in!" He needed this. She needed this. An audience would only make matters worse.

Ivan didn't let go of her wrists, even as she struggled. Instead, he leaned closer, his voice cutting through her screams.

"Mizi, I know you are sad. I know you miss Sua an unbearable amount. I–I miss her a lot too."

Her screams faltered, devolving into ragged, hiccupping sobs. She was still fighting him, but she was listening now, at least.

"I know what it's like to have a love so ugly and possessive you think it's a curse," he continued, his own voice breaking. "To feel like a monster. But Mizi, this?" He tightened his grip slightly, not to hurt her, but to emphasize his point. "Don't you see? By doing this to yourself, you're letting them break what she loved most. Sua loved you a lot, please don’t let them destroy you."

The fight seemed to drain out of her all at once, leaving behind a devastating emptiness. Her body went limp in his grasp, her head hanging low.

"Then what was I supposed to do?" she asked, her voice defeated. "When I saw her researching her own death, what should I have done? When she wasn't here anymore, what was I supposed to do?" Her voice began to rise again, trembling with a frantic, agonized energy. "When Hyuna died, what could I have done, huh? All the lives lost because of me... what can I do to atone for it? Tell me, Ivan, come on. If you think you know so much."

She finally wrenched her wrists from his grasp, not to strike him, but to wrap her arms around herself, as if she could physically hold her broken pieces together.

"What was I supposed to do when my owners left me bleeding out? When people loved me without me doing anything to deserve it? What was I supposed to do?" The questions were no longer accusations, but pleas from a lost child. Her body was wracked with tremors as she began to cry in earnest, the words dissolving into sobs. "What should I have done, Ivan? Sua died because of me and I knew it and I did nothing and–"

Her hands flew up, clawing at her own temples, fingers tangling in the synthetic strands of the wig as if she could tear the memories out. The sobs escalated, turning into ragged, hyperventilating gasps for air.

"What should I have DONE?" she shrieked, the sound raw and torn from her throat. She began to rock back and forth, a frantic, self-soothing motion that offered no solace. "WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!"

"I don't know," Ivan said, his voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through her screams. And then, he moved. He didn't try to restrain her again, instead, he simply wrapped his arms around her, pulling her shaking, rigid form against his chest.

For a moment, she went completely still. "Then don't," she choked out, her voice muffled against his shirt. "Don't you dare use that patronizing tone with me. Let me go."

But he didn't. He held on tighter, his chin resting on the top of her head. "I don't know what you should have done," he repeated, his voice low and steady. "I'm sorry I'm so useless. In the end, I’m just like you. I have a list of things I regret longer than my own life. Things I can never fix. In fact, I’m sorry I never tried to understand you back then. Now I see you’ve been suffering for a long time."

He felt a fresh tremor run through her, but she wasn't pushing him away anymore.

"But we can do something now," he insisted. "There's a lot we can change, Mizi. Together." He took a shaky breath. "No one cared about us back then. All we've got is each other. Me, you, Till, Sua."

His voice softened, becoming a plea. "I want my friend back. So, when you're ready... please, come back to us."

A broken sound escaped her, half-sob, half-sigh. The last of her resistance crumbled. Her body went limp against him. Then, slowly, her arms came up, her hands fisting the fabric of his back as she hugged him back, her cries finally quieting into exhausted, shuddering breaths.

I was right, he thought, a faint, bittersweet ache in his chest. Your hugs are the best.

“It’s not fair, Ivan.” She mumbled.

“It’s not,” he agreed.

"It's not fair," she said again, the words catching on a huge, gulping breath as she tried to steady herself. She repeated it multiple times, each iteration a little softer, a little less frantic, as if she were finally draining the poison of the sentiment. "It's not fair... It's not..."

"I know," he murmured each time.

Slowly, the tension began to leach from her body, leaving behind a profound, weary heaviness. Her grip on his shirt loosened from a desperate clutch to a simple hold.

After a long while, she spoke again, her voice hoarse but clearer than it had been since he entered the room. "I'm tired."

"I know," he said for what felt like the hundredth time, because he did. He knew that kind of tiredness down to his marrow. "You can rest now. I'm not going anywhere."

“Mhm,” she hummed, then adjusted her position so she could rest her head on his shoulder, much like they did as children. “Can you talk to me?”

I like your voice, she had said once. Ivan had to bite his own lip to avoid the urge to cry.

“Always.”

He thought about what he wanted to say, all these years, and with a drawn breath, he finally settled on the thing that bothered him the most: he never felt like he knew her. Truly knew her. Now that he had the chance, he wanted to change that.

“It’s wonderful to meet you properly, Mizi,” he began, his voice a low, steady murmur. Though she didn’t respond, he could feel her listening, her breathing syncing with his words. “You might already know some of this, but I’m Ivan. Not a lot of people know that I grew up in the slums. I was there until I was captured and bought…”

He kept talking, his voice soft in the dim room. He shared the fragments of his life and spoke of things he had never voiced to anyone, the story unfolding not as a confession, but as an offering, a way to say, This is me. Now, who are you?

Slowly, the tension in her body melted completely away, replaced by the heavy, trusting weight of exhaustion. Her breathing deepened, becoming slow and even against his neck. She had fallen asleep on top of him, her grip on his shirt finally going slack.

Not too long after, he heard it: two soft, careful knocks on the door. It creaked open a moment later, and Till’s worried face appeared in the gap. His eyes scanned the scene–the shattered cup on the floor, the disheveled room, and Ivan, sitting amidst the wreckage with a sleeping Mizi clinging to him.

Ivan met his gaze and brought a finger to his lips in a gentle, silencing gesture.

The man’s expression softened instantly, the worry melting into a look of such profound tenderness that it made Ivan’s heart ache. A small, warm smile touched Till’s lips. He didn't speak. Instead, he moved quietly to a wardrobe, pulled out a soft, thick blanket, and returned. With the utmost care, he draped it over both of them, tucking it around Ivan’s shoulders and Mizi’s back, enveloping them in a cocoon of warmth. He gave Ivan’s shoulder a faint, reassuring squeeze, then retreated as silently as he came, leaving the two of them in the peaceful quiet, finally at rest.

Ivan looked at the girl on top of him, and softly leaned his head on top of hers.

It’s nice to have you back.

.

Ivan stood at the threshold of Till’s room for the first time. He had tried to be considerate, asking Dewey for a separate room to give Till space to process the shift between them. Till had just looked at him like he was an idiot, and Dewey had wiggled his eyebrows so suggestively that Ivan had finally caved and agreed to stay there.

The room was a disaster zone.

“You live like this?” Ivan teased, deliberately drawing out his words to be annoying. He was baiting Till, hoping for a familiar flash of irritation.

Instead, Till just looked content, a soft smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the mess on the floor. “Yeah, well. The kids leave their things everywhere. I gave up on organization a long time ago.”

Ivan hummed in agreement, remembering how his room back at Unsha’s wasn’t much better.

In one moment, Ivan was standing in the middle of the room. In the next, tiny hands were fisting the fabric of his shirt from behind, looking down to the expectant gaze of a child.

A memory, unbidden, surfaced. Sua had once told him about cats. He didn't know why it stuck with him, but it had. She’d explained the ‘cat-distribution system,’ an old human joke about how cats choose their humans, and once chosen, that was it. You were theirs.

Ivan had never seen one in his life, and he’d never heard that story before Sua. But right now, surrounded by five fussy children and their dad (a concept Till had patiently explained when Ivan had asked in confusion who ‘Dad’ was, after he laughed for minutes straight), all of whom refused to leave him alone for more than five minutes, he thought he understood the principle perfectly.

Pink was there, arms raised, demanding to be held. As he squatted down to oblige, a small body shoved against the kid.

“That’s not fair! You just had your turn with him today!” Silver protested, latching onto one of Ivan’s arms.

“Hey, let go! You said it was my turn now!” Maroon grabbed Silver, which created an opening for Black to cling to his leg.

“It’s mine now.”

“No,” the blond kid interjected, fixing her with a menacing glare. “He told me he would teach me how to make a map. That’s more important.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is!”

In under a minute, the room descended into pandemonium. Now Ivan fully understood Till’s surrender. To be honest, he was a little bit scared.

“You’re good with kids,” Till remarked from the corner, calmly organizing the few clothes Dewey and Isaac had lent Ivan into a tiny wardrobe. Their clothes would probably get mixed up, Ivan realized. The thought sent a strange, warm thrill through him.

“I’m not,” Ivan stated flatly, trying to extricate his leg from Black’s grip. “You’re all just weird.” The only child who had ever tolerated him was Phoebe, and maybe Mizi. He still remembered how the other children had steered clear from him. These ones in front of him are the odd bunch. Not that he minds, of course, he is plenty weird himself.

Frustrated and craving contact, he moved towards Till, intending to wrap his arms around him from behind, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his chest.

He must have made a truly heartbreaking expression, because Till’s stern facade immediately melted into a patient explanation. “It’s not my turn yet.”

Ivan blinked. “Your turn?”

“Yes,” Till said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He pointed a thumb at the five children who were now in a tangled heap of fight on the floor. “They made a schedule. I get you from eight to ten, after they’re all in bed. It’s a very strict system. They’ll revolt if I break the rules.”

“Right,” he said as he moved to stare, first at Till’s utterly serious face, then at the squabbling pile of children who had, apparently, bureaucratically allocated his time. A strange, bubbling sensation rose in his chest. It wasn't laughter, not quite, but he couldn’t contain the smile forming on his lips, which was, unfortunately, soon replaced by an ache.

He missed his daughter.

"Till," he began, his voice surely betraying the anguish he felt now, despite the fact he was smiling. "Can we talk?"

Till raised one of his eyebrows as an inquiry, but with no further ado started to make the kids leave, most likely noticing this conversation was a more dire one. The last of the children had finally been shooed away after a chorus of protests, leaving the room in a sudden, fragile quiet. He moved to sit on the edge of his bed, patting the space beside him, but Ivan remained standing, the words stuck in his throat.

The shift in the air was immediate. Till’s playful demeanor vanished, replaced by concern. "What's going on? Is everything alright?"

Ivan nodded, a stiff motion. He forced himself to sit, the mattress dipping under his weight. He was trying to find a way to explain how ugly he is without making any red alarms ring on Till’s mind.

The infirmary confession had been one thing, but this was different. This was the core of his shame, the one secret he had been too terrified to tell. Every time Till assured him of his love, the ghost of this truth screamed in his ear. What if this was the line? What if this was the ugliness that even Till’s stubborn kindness couldn't forgive? What if Till starts to hate him because of it? What if he gives up their relationship? What if–

"Ivan, calm down." Till’s voice was soft but firm. His hands came down to cover Ivan’s, which were clenched into white-knuckled fists on his knees, trembling without his consent. "You can tell me anything, you know? I promise I won't get mad."

"You promise?" Ivan asked, the words deadly serious, despite the childish inquiry being made, his eyes searching Till’s for any hint of a lie.

"Yes. Unless it involves you dying. Then I can't promise anything."

"No, but I…I need to leave."

Till’s face fell, all the softness hardening into shock. "Or that. What the fuck do you mean, 'leave'?"

"I–" The words tumbled out in a rush. "Do you remember when I was shot? I told you about Phoebe. I need to find her, she's–"

"Your daughter," Till finished, his voice quiet.

Ivan recoiled as if struck. "How do you know?"

Till let out a soft, weary huff. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned over and pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. From it, he retrieved a small, well-maintained box, its edges worn but clearly cared for. He opened the lid with a tenderness that made Ivan’s heart ache. Inside, neatly stacked, were his letters.

"You've read them," Ivan whispered, the statement hanging in the air between them.

Till nodded, his fingers gently tracing the top letter. "Multiple times. I read them while you were unconscious. I thought if I could just understand you better, I could… I don't know."

"So you know what happened." The statement was flat, heavy with the expectation of condemnation.

"Yeah," Till said, and when he looked up, his eyes weren't filled with anger, but with sadness. "I don't think you're a monster, Ivan–”

I think I have finally become a monster. A real one. The kind that looks at something innocent and feels nothing but cold.

“–And I don't think it was your fault, either. It's past the point where we stop blaming ourselves for what the segyein made us do."

"No," Ivan insisted, the guilt a fire in his gut. "In the end, I was the one who chose that."

"Yeah," Till countered, his voice firm yet gentle as he reached out and cupped Ivan’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. "You chose it between that and dying. That's not really much of a choice, right?" He took a slow breath, his thumb stroking Ivan's cheek. "You need to leave to go look for her, right? I get it. But urgh–"

He groans, burying his face on Ivan’s shoulders.

“What do you mean you have a kid now and I’ve never got to see her?”

Ivan laughed, the sound shaky with a relief so profound it felt like a physical weight lifting from his chest. It was time for his mind to finally, truly accept that Till might be many things–stubborn, exasperating–but he was never, ever unkind.

"You'll see her soon, I promise," Ivan murmured, the vow as much for himself as for Till.

"Mhm," Till hummed against his shoulder, the vibration a soothing rhythm against his skin. The warm ghost of his breath on Ivan's neck sent a shiver down his spine. "Can you tell me about her?"

"Sure, I–" Ivan started, then faltered. How could he possibly condense the universe of Phoebe into words? "She's… really small. And very shy around strangers. It might not seem like that once she knows you, though. She talks a lot. A constant, little stream of questions and observations." A fond smile touched his lips. "She's really sassy, too. Has an opinion on everything."

He laughed a little, the memory of a little girl following him around making inquiries about everything clear in his mind. "She laughs a lot, for some reason. It's this bright, unguarded sound. I think maybe it's because it's her first time experiencing anything. The world hasn't had a chance to make her jaded yet. She doesn't see the ugly in things, which is nice."

Till's arm tightened around him, a silent encouragement to continue.

"Her favorite color is yellow. She collects little, shiny things, most of them are rocks. She'd line them up on the windowsill of my room like they were treasures and I never had the heart to take it off." His voice grew softer, more wistful. "She has this way of tilting her head when she's thinking really hard, like a little animal. And when she's tired, she doesn't just fall asleep. She fights it, her eyelids getting heavier and heavier, until she finally just gives in."

“To be honest, I’m not the best dad, I never thought I could grow to like her, but she opened my eyes. She taught me how to care, and I’m really grateful for that.”

He met Till's gaze.

"I can’t wait to meet her." Till whispered.

"I'm sure you two will click right away," Ivan finished, the image of Phoebe and Till meeting feeling more like an inevitable future than a distant dream.

He took a slow breath, adding one last detail. "She has this long, brown hair. It's always getting tangled, and I was never any good at taking care of it. And her eyes…" He paused, a faint, sad smile on his lips. "Her eyes are just like mine."

Ivan expected Till to hum in acknowledgment or maybe tease him. Instead, the arm around him went rigid. Till pulled back just enough to search his face, his own expression suddenly sharp and intensely focused.

"Ivan," Till said, his voice low and urgent. "How did you get separated from her? Tell me exactly."

"There was a rebel who had infiltrated Unsha's manor. She helped me."

Till's grip on his shoulders tightened. "What did she look like?"

Ivan was increasingly growing worried, but he answered calmly, ignoring TIll’s urgent tone. "I think the most stark characteristic of hers is her long red hair–"

Till's eyes widened as he shot up from the bed so fast it made Ivan jump.

"Holy shit," Till breathed, the words barely audible. Then, louder, "Holy shit!"

Before Ivan could process what was happening, Till had grabbed both of his hands, hauling him to his feet.

"Till? What–?"

"Holy shit, there’s no way," Till's words tumbled out in a rushed, breathless stream as he pulled Ivan toward the door, his movements charged with a desperate energy.

"Where are we going? What's going on?" Ivan asked, confusion warring inside him. He could feel Till's hand trembling in his.

"I don't want to explain yet," Till said, glancing back at him. "In case I'm wrong. I couldn't stand it if I got your hopes up for nothing."

He didn't say another word, just kept pulling Ivan along through the corridors. They moved past curious onlookers, until they finally stopped in front of a large door at the end of a quiet hallway.

Till didn't knock. He just pushed the large door open and gently urged Ivan inside.

The room was a burst of color and chaos, clearly a space made for children. Toys were scattered across a soft rug, and drawings were taped haphazardly to the walls. Ivan's eyes, overwhelmed, scanned the room until they landed on the lone child sitting quietly in the corner, drawing something with a forlong expression.

His heart stopped.

It was her. His little moon.

She hadn’t even raised her head yet, but he would know her anywhere. The same long, brown hair he’d never been able to properly brush. The same serious set of her small mouth as she focused. The same way she tilted her head, just so.

A choked sound, half-sob, half-disbelieving laugh, escaped him. He took a single, faltering step forward, his legs feeling like they were made of water. At the sound, the little girl looked up. Her eyes–his eyes, the exact same shade–widened. For a terrifying second, she just stared, and Ivan was paralyzed, afraid that she would hate him for what he made her go through.

Then, her small face broke into tears, abandoning everything she was doing, and ran toward him.

Ivan immediately dropped to his knees just in time to catch her as she launched herself into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, nuzzling, his entire body shaking as he held her tiny body against him.

He was dimly aware of Till standing in the doorway, but in that moment, nothing else existed. There was only the weight of his daughter in his arms and the fact she was safe.

He had found her.

“You really came,” her little voice murmured.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry it took me so long.”

She leaned into his touch, hugging him tighter. "It's okay. The red-haired lady said you were brave. She said you would come.”

Ivan let out a laugh, "Of course I would. I missed you so much."

"I missed you more," she declared with the absolute certainty of a child.

With hands that still trembled, Ivan gently framed her face again, using his thumbs to carefully wipe the tear-tracks from her soft cheeks.

"Did you... were you scared?" he asked softly, the question a fragile thing.

She nodded, her lower lip wobbling slightly. "A little. But everyone here is really nice. They gave me this." She pointed to a small, worn stuffed animal in the shape of a star that lay nearby.

"We'll have to thank them properly one day.”

Phoebe's gaze grew curious as she studied his face, her small fingers reaching up to tentatively touch the damp skin beneath his eyes. "You're crying. Don’t cry!"

Ivan caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her tiny palm. "These are happy tears," he explained, his voice a soft rumble. "They happen when your heart is so full it can't hold everything inside."

She considered this with a serious expression, then leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his, a gesture of pure, uncomplicated affection that stole his breath. "My heart feels full too," she whispered.

.

Ivan had been right when he said his daughter and Till would be like two peas in a pod. In fact, it took less than a week for them to form a formidable alliance dedicated to making his life a special kind of wonderful hell.

The first few days were understandably fragile. Phoebe refused to let Ivan out of her sight, clinging to his hand or the hem of his shirt. He didn't mind in the slightest, as he could never get enough of just looking at his daughter just existing. This, of course, meant she wanted to sleep nestled against him every night. Till had readily agreed, his own heart too full to deny her anything. Her cuteness was truly a formidable weapon.

This, in turn, led to a full-scale revolt from the five other children, who declared it "supremely unfair" that they were excluded. The resulting compromise was a massive, chaotic pillow fortress constructed in the common room, a sprawling nest of blankets and cushions where all seven children, Till, and Ivan ended up in a tangled, sleepy heap.

The kids' immediate, fierce attachment to Phoebe was both baffling and touching. Pink had appointed himself a permanent fixture at Phoebe's side, a silent, steadfast shadow. Silver was in heaven, endlessly exclaiming she'd always wanted a sister with long hair to play with–a feature Black, who staunchly refused to let her own hair grow past her shoulders, observed with a mixture of scorn and secret envy, before caving in and going to play with them too.

But the true test of Ivan's sanity was the budding partnership between his daughter and the man he loved.

They were, right at this moment, going to visit Mizi for the first time. Till had reluctantly raised the idea of inviting her to the pillow fortress, since she wasn’t allowed to go out much outside her room, still feeling a little out of sorts to visit places full of people. Figuring it was best to just explain everything all at once, they were taking all the kids with them, to see how Mizi would react.

And now, Till was having a blast making Phoebe embarrass the hell out of him.

"He talked about me a lot then?" Till asked, a sly grin spreading across his face as he walked beside Phoebe, his hand gently holding hers.

Phoebe, swinging their joined hands, nodded with grave seriousness. "Oh, yes. All the time."

Till's grin widened into something truly insufferable. "Is that so? What did he say about me?"

"He said you are loud," Phoebe reported dutifully.

Ivan shot a glare over his shoulder. "You are loud."

"And that you were stubborn," she continued, ticking points off on her fingers.

"Pot, meet kettle," Till chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

"But," Phoebe added, her small voice softening as if sharing a great secret, "he also said your smile was his favorite thing. And that he liked you a lot."

Ivan refused to turn around, his ears burning. "She's a pathological liar. A tiny, adorable slanderer."

“Like father like daughter, I suppose,” Till teased, but his voice had lost its sharp edge, becoming something warm. "Lucky for me, I like you a lot, too."

The spell was broken by a voice full of disgust.

“Eww, you two should stop flirting in front of us,” Maroon said, blocking Black’s ears.

Till huffed a laugh, the same time they stopped in front of Mizi’s door.

“I will talk to her a little, alright? If she seems fine, I will come here and bring you all. How does that sound?” Ivan reluctantly asked.

Till squeezed Phoebe’s hand before releasing it. “Sounds good. We’ll be right here.” He herded the small crowd of children back a few steps, giving Ivan a small, encouraging nod.

Ivan took a steadying breath and knocked softly on Mizi’s door. There was a moment of silence, then a quiet, “Come in.”

He slipped inside, closing the door most of the way behind him but leaving it slightly ajar. Mizi was dressed in the clothes she used to wear as a rebel, and the wig was gone. Her short, pink hair was a messy halo around her head. She looked tired, but present.

“Hello,” he said.

A small smile touched her lips. “Hey.” Her eyes flickered to the door. “I heard a commotion. You brought an army?”

“Something like that,” Ivan admitted. “Till and I… We wanted you to meet them, but there’s something I need to tell you first.”

Feeling a little hesitant, he looked at her accepting face, and forced the words out of his mouth.

Ivan started with Phoebe, then, he took a deeper breath and told her about the museum. The clones. The ones made from the participants of the last Alien Stage.

He explained as gently as he could, watching her face carefully. Her expression didn’t crumble or twist with grief. Instead, it became still, a quiet mask settling over her features. She listened, her gaze fixed on a point on the floor, not reacting. He couldn't tell if she was absorbing the information or shutting down.

When he finished, the silence in the room was heavy. Mizi’s gaze remained lowered, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Are they out there, then?” she finally asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes.”

Mizi nodded slowly, digesting this. She looked around her room, then back at Ivan, her eyes wide and a little lost. “It’s… a lot.”

“It is,” he agreed softly. “You don’t have to see them, if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she said, her voice firmer. She took a deep breath and straightened out her back. “No, I want to. I think… I think it will be worse if I don't.”

The simple declaration sent a wave of relief through Ivan. He offered her a small, understanding smile and turned to the door, pulling it fully open.

The scene that greeted them was predictably chaotic. Maroon, Silver, and Yellow, who had clearly been pressed against the door listening, tumbled into the room in a heap. Ivan fixed them with an unimpressed stare as they scrambled to their feet, dusting themselves off with sheepish grins.

Ivan stepped aside, a strange, quiet certainty settling in his chest that everything would, somehow, be okay. “Mizi, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Mizi.”

A hush fell over the group. The children stared, their curiosity palpable. Mizi’s eyes swept over them, a quick, nervous scan, before they stopped, predictably, on Black.

Ivan’s breath caught as he watched Mizi, trying to gauge her reaction, wondering what she was seeing as she looked at the closest clone of the woman she had fallen in love with.

The little girl, most likely feeling the weight of the stare, was the first to go forward. She took a few hesitant steps until she was standing right beside Mizi’s bed. She looked up, wide and curious.

Mizi didn’t move. She seemed frozen, her breath held. Then, slowly, as if moving through deep water, she raised a trembling hand. Her fingers, gentle as a whisper, came up to cup Black’s cheek. Her thumb stroked the soft skin just below the child’s eye, a gesture of heartbreaking tenderness.

A single tear traced a path down Mizi’s cheek, but she was smiling, a soft, wondrous thing.

“You,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion, “are the prettiest thing.”

Black’s serious expression didn’t change, but she leaned into the touch, her own small hand coming up to rest over Mizi’s. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She swallowed hard, her thumb making one more gentle pass over Black's cheek before she slowly lowered her hand.

"It's really nice to meet you, too," Mizi whispered back, her voice raw but steady.

That was all the invitation the other children needed. They surged forward in a wave of sudden, chattering energy, no longer held back by the tension of the unknown.

"So, are you coming to the pillow fort?" Silver asked, grabbing Mizi's other hand and swinging it. "It's huge!"

"We have extra blankets," Yellow added, peering around Maroon's shoulder.

Mizi let herself be pulled to her feet, the first genuine smile Ivan had seen on her spreading across her face as she looked down at the small crowd surrounding her. Her eyes, still shimmering with tears, held a light that hadn't been there since they had first found her. She allowed herself to be guided toward the door, the children herding her with the effortless command only they possessed, leaving him and Till together in the now empty room.

He felt Till’s presence shift beside him. A warm hand slid into his, fingers lacing tightly through his own.

“Well,” Till said, his voice a low, rough murmur in the quiet. “This went a lot better than I expected.”

He laughed softly as he leaned his weight back, his shoulder pressing against Till’s. “Yeah, it did.” He managed. “...Do you think we will be alright?”

Till looked at him, most likely taken back from the weighted question.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be alright in the way that means easy. Or perfect.”

His thumb stroked over Ivan’s knuckles, a steady, grounding rhythm. “I’m going to wake up some mornings and be convinced this is a dream. You’re going to look at one of the kids and have no idea what the right thing to do is. Mizi is going to have bad days–really bad days–and we’re just going to have to sit with her in it. My nightmares… they’re part of me now. And Sua…” He shook his head. “That’s a hurt that doesn’t go away.”

“But we will manage,” he squeezed his hand. “When I have nightmares, you will be there to wake me up. If we mess up with the children, we have an entire base of people to help us fix it. On Mizi’s bad days, she’s not alone in her room anymore. She has a pillow fort to hide in and a little child that proves Sua will stay with us, always.”

He gave Ivan’s hands a final, solid squeeze. “We will be together. I think that’s enough.”

Ivan's heart felt full.

As he didn’t have words, he simply leaned in and kissed Till, a slow, deep kiss that still felt magical. Ivan guessed it always would be.

“Okay, I can deal with that.” Ivan whispered, his voice thick with emotion, until it finally merged into his familiar teasing tone. “We should probably go there before someone sets things on fire.”

Till’s grin was immediate and brilliant, and this time, he held Ivan’s hand as they left through the door.

Together they walked toward the light.

.

Before forgetting, I seize and embrace you

It’s alright–I know your warmth, even in its chill