Archive of Our Own ^beta

Today’s bruise is right under his left eye.

By the time Till peers into the puddle, the wound is already growing darker around the edges. Tiny black dots gather under his thumb when he pulls at the skin. Softly, at first. Then, with a little more force. At fourteen years old, he is well-versed in the art of pressure. He knows how much of it he can take at any given moment. It is similar to pressing guitar strings, except it really isn’t. Still, his fingers falter as they probe at the swelling, just as they did the very first time he tried to play a C major chord. When he lets go, a sharp twinge of pain runs through him, reminiscent of that awkward and broken sound from so long ago.

He takes a deep breath, trying to still his trembling hands. After all, the body is an instrument. Especially his body. Without patience, it will always remain dissonant. Till is good at holding the throat of the guitar and willing it to produce beautiful melodies. He struggles to do the same when it comes to himself.

In the first couple of years of being here, he had tried to tune every habit, every instinct into something harmonious. But he always found himself exploding into noise at the slightest jab. Even today, that remains true. It would be smarter to fall into place, he knows. But the silence is going to descend on him when they decide to put the muzzle back on his mouth, inevitably. If there are moments when he gets to choose a different sound, he wants to try making that choice.

Till brings the finger back to his face, pushing into the tenderness until he can feel himself stop flinching. One less thing. Even if he can already feel the tears gathering in the corner of his eyes, he wants to give them one less thing. Blinking rapidly, he watches as the skin ripples around the point of contact. Sometimes, he tries to find shapes in the bruises, as one would do with the clouds. Before, he used to pretend that they weren’t in the first place, but that was hard to do when he caught sight of them in every reflective surface, and the other children’s eyes followed him in every room. If the bruises were going to take days to disappear (and newer ones would soon take their place), he had to at least find a way to bear with them.

It is how he feels when he puts pencil to paper and decides to give the trees real leaves, the kind that must grow outside the gates of this garden. They can put what they want in front of him. He will do his best to make something new out of it every time.

Today’s bruise resembles an ellipsis. The shape of orbits, Ivan had told him once, and Till had believed him. Everything in our universe moves in this order. Nothing ever stands still.

Somehow, the memory takes away from the ugliness of it, a little. When he lifts his finger from the bruise, black dots disperse toward the outermost boundaries. A tiny galaxy, making and unmaking.

***

“It knows you by your scent,” the children of Anakt Garden whisper to each other in the halls. “It is always waiting in the shadows. If you put your ear against the wall after lights out, you will be able to hear its breathing. It won’t do anything to you, not right away. But if you get three Cs on your practicals or get sent to solitary three weeks in a row, it will know that you are next. You know the sound that sometimes echoes through the old pipes in the bathrooms? That weird grating of metal? That is the sound of its teeth, slowly being sharpened. Of course, it still won’t come for you. First, you will feel its eyes on your back when you’re sitting at your desk in class or standing in line for food in the dining room. Then you will find pieces of its fur between the pages of your books and on your pillowcase. Every night, its breathing will grow louder and louder, until you can hear it in your room itself. When that happens, don’t look in front of you. Don’t look behind you either. Look up. It will always be standing above you. It's two sets of crimson eyes staring back at you. That will be the last thing you ever see.”

This is only one of the many school legends, and it grows especially popular on the mornings when they enter the classroom and find another chair empty. That’s what happened to Hana, the children will say, when the headcount during the assembly is one number short. And Simon. And Miriam. After all, there is no other explanation for a missing friend. It has to be something monstrous, something with deadly eyes. Something that lives in a dark cave. What else could evoke such fear?

These mornings, the children will tremble in their seats and keep looking over their shoulders. Then they will raise their hands to answer the teacher, who will grin widely, four pointed teeth protruding from the top of her mouth. At lunch, they will hold out their trays, so the worker on duty can scoop up the broth and pour it in the right place, black fur matting the backs of his arms. In the evening, when they scrape their knees during playtime, they will go to the nurse, who will gently clean the cut and cover it with a band-aid. The crimson pupils dotting her forehead will twinkle as she reaches into the bowl and holds out a lollipop as a reward.

Sometimes the real horrors lie in the most ordinary of things.

***

When Ivan grabs his face roughly, the dull ache that follows is a little like déjà vu.

“Hold still,” Ivan says, fingers pushing Till’s chin upward. His other hand is tightly closed in a fist, which he slowly raises. Till inhales, bracing himself for the impact. “If you don’t hold still, this will only hurt more.”

The first touch is always the worst. Till has to bite his lip to hold back the whimper. The second is a little easier to tolerate. By the third, he manages to exhale, shoulders relaxing slightly. The fourth, fifth, and sixth are inconsequential. By then, the pain has already receded to its usual amount. This he can live with.

The egg feels warm against his skin. It has a slight crater at the top where Ivan’s fingers must have dug too deep. Earlier, Till had watched him slip the egg into his pocket, just before the bots had taken away the trays. It had reminded him of all the times Ivan had nicked the sugar cubes from Till’s tray, popping them into his mouth one by one. These won’t help you grow taller, you know, he would say, making a show of licking his fingers clean. Here, have my carrots instead. You can thank me later. Usually, when Ivan bothers to show up for lunch, it is to pull tricks like this.

Today, he stayed on his side of the bench. Throughout lunch, Till had felt a prickle along the back of his neck, but he had not wanted to look up. It was much simpler to keep his eyes on his food. His first few years at the garden, Till had spent every mealtime with a finger poking into his side or toes wiggling against his own. Even if he pushed it away, the touch kept coming back, stubborn. Till had slowly started to trust its permanence. Then, there was that night the two of them had been closer than ever, shadows overlapping under the burning sky. When Till had started running the other way, he had not stopped for a long, long time. Afterward, there was no longer a way to cross all that distance.

There would never be a field between them again, but there was always a table or someone else's body in the middle seat. Ivan would breach that barrier, time and time again, but he always returned to the other side without fail. Till could only keep to himself, a country of one boy, waiting for Ivan to toss peas across the border, never knowing if it was a white flag of surrender or another threat. In Till's mouth, apologies turned into curses, but it never seemed to be the right time for either. There were days when Ivan reached over and licked Till’s spoon clean. There were days when he talked to the person sitting next to him, without sparing Till a single glance. Till couldn't tell which hurt worse.

Today, Ivan had only grabbed the egg, his smile turning a little crooked when Till had finally met his eyes. They were not supposed to save any of the food from mealtimes, but the bots had still been on the far side of the room. It was not the first time that Till was the only witness to Ivan's acts of petty theft. Pencils, guitar picks, toffees. Ivan’s shamelessness knew no bounds. The only thing he didn't touch was the flower crowns. But Till had found that out when he was five.

Till’s own egg had disappeared inside his stomach right at the start of lunch. After all, it was rare for them to get this kind of protein. It was even rarer for Till to be allowed to eat it, what with the ever-changing diets Urak put him on. He had wanted to make the most of it. Not that he had even known that eggs could have a different purpose. Even if he had known, a remedy like that would always be second to hunger.

“Are you sure this is working?” Till asks now, as Ivan rolls the egg with the palm of his hand. The motion feels a little soothing. Vaguely, he recalls a pair of softer hands, rubbing his cheeks to keep the cold away. He wants to chase that memory, wants it to unfurl in his mind in full color. But whenever he considers closing his eyes, the egg rubs against a particularly sore spot, and he is brought back to the present again. “I don’t want my whole face smelling like an egg for no reason.”

“It is working. I can already see some of the swelling go down,” Ivan says, thumb resting under Till’s left eye, never letting the egg get too close. His hands remain steady, long accustomed to Till's squirming. They have been in this position before, many other times. Ivan has picked glass shards from the soles of Till's feet, refusing to stop even when Till sobbed so hard that snot ran down his face. Ivan has popped Till's jaw back into place, fingers crammed between Till's teeth, so he would not bite down. There is no one else willing to cause him so much pain. Not among the humans, at least.

Surprisingly, they have never tried this with an egg. But that is most likely because eggs are uncommon in the garden. Till’s run-ins with the segyein, on the other hand, are not. All the eggs in the world may not be enough to put him back together again.

Still, Ivan seems to be trying, rolling the egg this way and that way. Every few seconds, Till catches glimpses of its unmarred form. That pure white color, free from any blame. Till imagines it slowly soaking up horrible purple spreading across his cheek, the kind of purple that would take Till hours to achieve because he would keep getting the measurements of the red and blue paints wrong. It is a little frustrating that segyein had been able to make something like this without even trying.

“How do you even know about this, anyway?” Till wonders, as he always does. Sometimes, it feels like Ivan’s brain is a magician’s hat. But instead of white rabbits, he pulls out the most bizarre pieces of information: Two stones struck together in the right way can produce a spark. The outer parts of the flowers are consumable; the center is not. Potatoes last longer than any other vegetables, so they can be hoarded under the mattress for months. The trick to seeing in the dark is keeping one's eyes closed for the first fifteen seconds. Boiled eggs can make bruises heal faster. “Did you read about this in one of your books?”

When they were younger, Till would never know how to react every time Ivan performed his little tricks. At the same time, it made sense that it was Ivan who knew how to do these things. Ivan, who chewed on Till’s hair in his sleep and stole only halves of his erasers. Ivan, whose smiles fell apart on his lips, like badly-folded paper cranes. Ivan, who never wore a collar but could take off Till’s collar in less than ten seconds. Even as Till had hated bearing the brunt of Ivan’s weirdness, he had also taken solace in the fact that he was somewhat special. None of the other children knew how to make stones skip on water more than six times. But Till did, because Ivan had taught him.

Even back then, the garden had seemed so closed-off; there was a world beyond, strange and beautiful, that most of them had never seen. Beyond glass cages and sales shops. But somehow, a part of that world had survived inside Ivan's mind, and sometimes, Till would catch a glimpse of it. Like in those moments, when they rolled off each other after yet another fight and lay on the grass together, gasping. In those moments, as Ivan mumbled into his shoulder, too tired to be cruel, Till got to step into that world, too.

Of course, that does not happen as frequently these days. Now, Ivan has grown taller than most boys in their class. He no longer slouches against Till's back. Instead, he stands straight, hands folded in front of his chest. He parts his hair to the side, each strand so carefully tucked into place. When he grins, his jaw shifts smoothly, without any of that previous obstruction. So handsome, their classmates whisper, as he walks by. But Till only finds those smiles bearable when he can see that little tooth poking out of the side of Ivan's mouth. It makes him think of all those afternoons Ivan spent sprawled across the floor of Till's room, crayons clutched in his stubby fingers. He left Till's drawings sporadically colored, such a mess. It is a little relieving to see that there is still a part of Ivan that can't stay within neatly drawn lines.

Even now, as Ivan bites the corner of his lip, the tooth is slightly visible. “Well?” Till says, when Ivan doesn't answer. “How do you know about the eggs?”

Ivan glances at him, red eyes as wonderless as ever. He moves a little to the right, letting go of Till's face. It's familiar, the way he so quickly sidesteps the truth. “Eggs fall out of cargo trucks easily,” he says, before his palm suddenly covers Till's eyes. It feels cold. Ivan has always run a little cold. “Keep your eyes closed for this part. I'm almost done.”

It's strange, the way Ivan almost seems stern in these moments. It used to scare Till. Whenever he showed up with a new wound, Ivan would grip his face and stare at it without saying anything. Cut it out, Till would say, trying to brush him off. It’s not the first time you’ve seen this. Ivan would only lean in, his fingers digging into Till’s jaw. It’s been a while since you got one here, he would say, as if he had been cataloguing every one of Till’s injuries. And he probably had been, that lunatic. The last one was at least five centimeters to the left. If you don’t fall in line, won’t it only get worse?

These days, Till thinks that he might prefer this Ivan. It’s better than the version of him that goes around smiling carelessly. The morning after the longest night of his life, Till had stood in line for the morning assembly, wringing his hands behind his back, not knowing if he would even get to see Ivan again. And yet, Ivan had shown up, lips stretched into a smile. He had stood behind Till without a word. If Till had turned around then and grabbed him by the collar, if he had pushed his face into Ivan’s shoulder and apologized, would everything be different now?

There’s no way to know for sure. As Till closes his eyes, the oncoming darkness almost feels comforting. This way, he can only sense Ivan’s presence by touch. The soft pressure of fingertips. The occasional drag of skin against skin. A slow exhale against his cheeks. Like this, Ivan feels much gentler than he is in real life. It’s different from the moments they sit side-by-side after their scuffles. This quietness doesn’t have to come at the cost of violence.

Perhaps it’s pitiful, but sometimes, Till forgets that there are good ways of being touched, too. It is hard to believe this when there are rough hands on his body, tugging him forward. Strapped in that metal chair, Till often feels like he has nowhere else to go. Does his fate rest in that locked room? Even if the sheets with the scribbled lyrics pile up under his bed, even if he draws Mizi’s smile for the umpteenth time, even if he kicks and screams and laughs outside of those four walls, at the end of the day, he somehow finds himself back there.

But the body also has other purposes. Every time a classmate bumps elbows with him in the corridors, Till discovers that touch can be harmless, too. He might spend hours sitting against the tree all alone, but he has been dragged into the world of people for the flimsiest of reasons, such as a dodgeball game or a singing competition. Once, when he had spilled soup down the front of his shirt, Mizi had pressed her handkerchief against the stain so easily, as if everything dirty about him could be cleaned with a few dabs of cloth. He doesn’t have to exist on the periphery all the time. A flower in his hair. A box of chocolates. A used xylophone. Perhaps these are enough to pin his place in this universe. There are safer ways of being acknowledged.

As Ivan’s hand moves vigorously over his face, Till wants to prolong the touch in this moment, too. In the end, when he opens his eyes, Ivan will be back to the way he always is. Cheeky. Distant. It is the world’s worst magic act. But as long as Till stays like this, Ivan can keep treating his wounds, unsmiling and unnervingly close. Like this, they can just be friends.

Ouch, Till thinks, as the egg brushes over a particularly tender spot. He must have winced because he feels Ivan slow down. “Almost done,” Ivan says, whispering as he does when Till starts sniffling during one of these meetings. Till’s fingers grip his pants. He has made it so far without crying; he doesn’t want to do it now. “Remember the butterflies, Till? Think of the butterflies.”

The butterflies, Ivan had told him when they were little, flew from flower to flower. Even if they had been born as worms, they were bright and beautiful and had the most colorful wings. Small as they were, they brought in the spring. Back when there was such a thing in their world.

Sometimes, Ivan would whisper, butterflies like to rest on humans. If a butterfly sits on you, you have to hold very still, so that it doesn’t get scared. It was a little game they would play whenever Till got hurt again. Back then, Till wasn’t very good at staying in place. He would move around a lot, and then everything would hurt worse. But the butterflies helped. They always helped.

Now, Till is very good at holding still. He has gotten a lot of practice, crouching behind the wall, hand against his mouth to not make a sound. Even when the footsteps get closer, he doesn’t move. It makes him the best player at hide-and-seek. But he still likes to think of the butterflies every time he feels the fleeting touches of Ivan’s hands. After all, they aren’t here to cause him pain. If Till can be as quiet and motionless as a flower, they will keep resting on his face.

Small but mighty. Bright and beautiful with the most colorful wings.

If Till can be as quiet and motionless as a flower, they will never fly away.

***

“If you’re good, you’ll go to the Great Anakt when you die,” the children of Anakt Garden whisper to each other in the halls. “It’s beautiful there. The trees are as tall as the sky. There is the real sun, the one from a million light years ago. When the old world ended, the sun went to the Great Anakt, too. Its light makes everything turn golden. You see, it is always daytime in the Great Anakt. You can spend hours napping under the shade of the trees with all your friends. There are no segyein there, so there is no one to scold you. You can play and swim in the river as much as you want and eat so much candy that your stomach hurts. No one will ever make you sing again. But all this is only if you are good. If you are bad and get punished a lot, you will not be able to enter the Great Anakt. You will spend eternity standing at the gate, watching everyone laugh inside. There will be nowhere left for you to go. You will be all alone for the rest of your time.”

The children will pass these words down the long queues outside the physical examination rooms. They will think of the sun when their legs are placed in the stirrups and the doors shut off all the light. They will suck on absent candies inside their mouth every time the needle jabs into their arms. Be good, they will say to themselves, when the bags fill up with the blood, round and puffy, like red balloons. Remember that you have to be good.

In a way, Anakt Garden is not that different from the Great Anakt. The trees are tall and free of any crooked corners and reach the sky that is forever painted blue. Blades of grass softly glint in the light, occasionally glitching. The children, dressed in white, look like angels or ghosts as they chase each other around the gently sloping hills or wade into the river where the water only reaches up to their waists. They clasp their hands against their chests and laugh and sing to their heart’s content. They try their best to be good.

If someone were to hear their voices from outside the gates, they might be stunned at the sheer volume. Perhaps there are too many children in Anakt Garden. Perhaps there are too many children in the Great Anakt.

***

Till remembers the Great Anakt being a dark room that was so small that he could run from one end to the other in a few steps. Cold drafts entered from the broken vents at the top, but Till was always so warm, tucked between another pair of knees. There were arms around him, but he never wanted to get out of their grasp. Every time he hummed loudly, another voice hummed back, like an echo. When he fell asleep, the puff of soft breath against his forehead chased all his nightmares away.

Till remembers snuggling closer to a body that was so much bigger than his, but had still never tried to hurt him. Even back then, there must have been smears on his chin, and he must not have bathed for days, but the fingers, wet with spit, rubbed at the dirt on his skin, and that was enough to make him feel clean. There were no mirrors, but Till only had to look up to catch sight of eyes that were the same color as his.

Someone had loved him once. Someone had loved him once and then never again.

Perhaps this is why Till has never yearned for those open green fields. If he has to die at the end of this twisted life, he hopes that he gets to go back to that room that smelled of dust and sweat. If he has to be filthy, one way or another, he would rather do it in this way.

There had been something good inside him, all those years ago. Then it had been snatched and packaged and sold off in a glass cage for a cheap discount. Half off, Urak always likes to remind him. Don’t forget that I bought you for half off. Till doesn’t think that he is valuable enough to be allowed into that special space in the sky, anyway. When all this is over, like all damaged goods, he prays that he is returned right where he first came from.

In those initial years in the garden, he had cried so much that the teacher kept sending him to that locked room. A constant disruption, they had called him, sticking a tape over his mouth. Back then, they had believed in more humane ways, so the muzzle had not yet been brought up. Still, Till had shown up every morning with shaggy hair, eyelids puffy and sore, wearing pants that were a little too loose for him because Urak had not wanted to buy another set for his new pet. Luckily, Urak’s old pet had not lived very long, so the pants would fit Till fine in a couple of years.

None of the other kids wanted to talk to him, especially after the first of the welts had shown up on his arms. Till would sit alone during every recess, head buried in his knees. Slowly, in that tight space made by his own body, he would sing that lullaby from a long time ago, the one he barely remembered. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, he would mumble, but no one would sing back. In this part of space, sounds only existed without their echoes.

It was as if there had still been a glass cage around him. All he could do was press his hands against it and peer at the world that so easily went on without him.

Mizi had been the first to breach the barrier. It was after one of their beginner music lessons. They had been practicing on xylophones, but Till had been unable to bear the twinkling melodies, so out of place in their reality. When his sniffling had grown noisier, he had been sent out of the class and ordered to kneel against the wall. It was the first time they had barred him from having lunch. Till had sat there for so long that the paper sky outside had started turning orange. He must have been wiping his wet nose with his ragged shirt when a pair of shoes stopped in front of him.

Why are you crying? The girl had said, her tiny palm resting on his head. He had seen her around before. Brash and loud, she always came first in their races. Are you sad because the teachers scolded you? Don’t worry, you’ll be able to do so much better next time! Here, I have something for you. Don’t cry anymore, okay?

Just like that, Mizi had given him his very first flower. Before that, red had been the color of syringes and blades. But in Mizi’s hands, red transformed into something five-petaled and kind. Small and soft and fragile, it was a debt he would never be able to repay.

Afterward, he followed her around everywhere. In the dining hall, along the riverbank, on top of the slides in the enrichment area. She would wave at him from a distance, but stay on her side of the room, so incredibly fair in her niceness. He had not been special, he soon realized. This was just the kind of person Mizi was. She passed through life as swiftly as the breeze, lifting a strand of hair here, brushing against someone else’s cheeks. She climbed trees to remove frisbees stuck in branches and braided their classmates’ hair during lunch. Till was just another thing that had come her way, another thing that had been moved, as per the rules of nature. He had not known how to ask for anything more.

Still, he had loved hiding behind the tree, simply watching her exist. He learned how to weave his first flower crown by observing the movements of her hands. As she had put her crown on another girl’s head, Till had wondered when he would get a chance to hold out something he had made and have it be carefully held in return. Truthfully, he was entranced every time he saw her lay her head on Sua’s shoulders. He had drawn them this way so many times. After a few moments of silence, they would begin to sing, not in the way the segyein had taught them, but in the way someone had sung in Till’s ears once. Seeing Mizi’s gold-specked eyes, Till would think of those bright eyes that had watched over him, night after night.

If it were Mizi, then perhaps it was possible for love to survive in such a place. Mizi, who came from the deep sea. Mizi, whose guardian came to visit her weekly, laden with gifts. Mizi, who liked telling horror stories, could speak of fear with the loveliest smile. As long as he kept looking at Mizi, Till could believe that there really was a way out of all of this.

Of course, some things would change over the years, and others would stay the same. Till would eventually learn how to bite the hands that fed him. He wanted to stay gentle, but gentleness did not come easily when his arms were being twisted behind his back. He would fight his way out of the bowties Urak put him in, refusing to sit on anyone's lap like a docile pet. He would scratch at the closed door, scream himself hoarse until he got knocked out on the smooth tiles. In those last moments of consciousness, he felt like the farthest thing from that little boy who never had to touch the harsh metal of the floor because he always had a lap to sit on.

Till hadn’t realized the anger that had wormed its way inside him until he was staring at the tangle of flowers crushed beneath Ivan’s feet. The next thing he knew, his hands had fisted Ivan’s shirt, and they were both rolling on the ground. Before this, he had only ever felt this volatile around the segyein. But there was Ivan, thumb inside his mouth, so clearly human. The part of Till that he kept tightly fastened, like one of those wind-up toys, jumped out of its box with just a few words from him.

He isn’t stupid. As an artist, Till understands: Color rubs off on skin too easily. If you spend too long with your fingers dipped in paint, you will be left with permanent stains. He isn’t like segyein in all their cruelties. But there is something inside him that has hardened with every dislocated bone. Once, when that clawed hand had slipped under his shirt, he had bitten his tongue bloody and red. Catching sight of his stained teeth in the bathroom mirrors later, he had felt as if he was staring at some other beast.

He knows that much of the rage is owed. In the garden, being good means giving the body up, entirely. But the body is all he has. He wants to use it to stick the end of his pencil between his lips as he stays up all night scribbling lyrics on the pages. If he has to punch and kick at a few guardians to get there, then so be it. They can’t take any of this away from him. He will keep making music that is for his ears alone.

Still, he craves tenderness, the kind that doesn’t come from wounds. He moves through the crowd of his classmates, trying to make himself smaller. Even if one of his eyes has been swollen shut, he will ensure that his smile still reaches it. This way, he will look a little less scary, and someone will sit next to him during lunch. He may not be good, but he does not want to turn rotten, either. That’s why he will keep drawing Mizi’s bright hair, fluttering in the wind. His hands may feel like a self-fulfilling prophecy, ending in violence, but this way, they are still capable of making beautiful things.

These aren’t just his fingers, after all. They are hers, too. In that dark room, when she had put her palm against his, he had been in awe of how soft it felt. When he grows up, he wants to grow into the same softness. Even if it feels impossible, he wants to keep nuzzling the flowers, so that he can also bloom with grace.

It is strange. He loves Mizi because loving her keeps him gentle. At the same time, he feels a kind of twisted comfort every time he bumps heads with Ivan, too. Ivan may teasingly draw out that familiar anger inside him, but he also seems content bearing the full force of it. Till can shove him as hard as he can, and Ivan will still come back to his side, as if operating under the same laws of physics that make an elastic band snap into place. He may not hover as closely as he once did, but Till sees his silhouette whenever he looks over his shoulder.

Till has never liked waking up on the grass alone to find yet another one of his things missing. Still, he must be truly pitiful to feel somewhat relieved at the resulting turmoil inside his chest. At least, this anger is still his, too. It doesn’t always have to come at the hands of segyein. Here is Ivan, who is responsible for each of Till’s grimaces and grunts, who receives them without the slightest hint of disgust. Till doesn’t have a reason to cower. There is no one tying a knot around his wrists. In this anger, his hands are free.

So, Till feels a little more deserving of touch with each high-five Mizi so generously gifts him, even when accompanied by Sua’s glare. At the same time, he feels a little less repulsive each time Ivan lets go of his shirt and asks if they can play rock-paper-scissors with their scraped hands. The gentleness still exists inside him. The anger still exists inside him. He is not ruined by either.

At the end of the day, these are his people, the two ends of his universe. Even Sua, because she shares Mizi’s corner with her. He has jumped into the river with them and splashed water until they were drenched all the way up to their hair. He has felt the flecks of warm light on his neck and laughed so hard he almost felt unafraid. He has waded out to the ground, following three sets of wet footprints, his soaked clothes so much heavier around his body.

Every time, that weight feels strange. Happiness, perhaps that is what they call it. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Every time, it makes something pinch inside his ribs because he thinks of her and the small room where he felt it for the very first time.

There must be a word for it. For the emotion that the memory of her smile evokes. Love feels too little. There must be something better.

Some day, years into the future, after all of this is long over, he will turn the dusty pages of a book and find the answer.

Mom, it will say.

***

“When the old world ended, it ended in fire,” the children of Anakt Garden whisper to each other in the halls. “All the buildings, all the trees, they were all burnt down to dust. Not even a single stone survived. Have you ever seen Earth through a telescope? Notice how brown it looks? It was blue once, the color of oceans. But every drop of water dried up with the flames. It took them decades to clean all that smoke, did you know? So many of the ashes are still floating up in space. That’s what the snow is. It’s the ashes of the old world, falling on us.”

Every once in a while, the false skies of Anakt Garden will open up, and the children will get a glimpse of the real skies that lie beyond. When this happens, classes are always put on hold so the children can run out and gather on the lawn. The children will excitedly call out to their friends, absentmindedly noting that there are a couple they haven’t seen since roll call the night before. They will turn their head upward and hold out their palms, giggling when the tiny flakes land on them. It’s snowing, they will say, bouncing on their feet. They will find it fascinating how something that was once so alive could now only exist in pieces.

In a way, the snow is like death. A death as old as time. A death that is continuous, that keeps happening over and over again. For the children of Anakt Garden, who have always been so close to death, it must be somewhat reassuring to seize this death with their hands and find it so small and harmless.

Of course, some rumors are truer than others. And in worse ways.

***

Sua never goes out in the snow, Till has noticed. Whenever the first of the flakes start drifting toward the ground, she finds the nearest tree and sits under it. Till often finds himself following her. He is not a big fan of the snow either because it sticks to the pads of his fingers and makes them smell weird. The snow is slow to dissipate, as if whatever it is made of wants to stay here as long as possible. He keeps finding pieces of it in his clothes even days after.

The two of them usually don't say anything to each other. Sua puts her arms around her folded knees and stares at the open field where Mizi is sticking her tongue out to catch the falling snowflakes. She looks beautiful. Till tries not to look at her too much because he doesn't want Sua to realize that he is doing it. Somehow, he suspects that she is not too fond of him. Sometimes, when he is watching Mizi and Sua spin each other around, Sua will turn her eerie purple eyes toward him. It never fails to send shivers down his spine.

Perhaps she knows that he likes her friend. If Till were braver, he would tell Sua that he has no intentions of intruding on their little universe. He has only ever wanted Mizi to stay as she is: radiant and brimming with hope. He wouldn't dream of asking for anything more. Just being able to see her glasses slide down her nose as she leans forward to tie up Sua's bangs is enough. Besides, he likes Sua because she makes Mizi happy. He doesn't want that to change.

The only time he feels a sting inside him is when he sees her talk to Ivan. Once, as he had entered the music building, Sua had run past him, cheeks flushed red, tears dripping off her chin. When he turned the corner, Ivan was tanding there, lips flattened. When Till had asked about what happened, Ivan had only shaken his head, lips twitching slightly but failing in their endeavours. There weren't a lot of people Ivan stopped smiling around. One of them was Till. It was only in that moment that Till had realized the other one was Sua. He still doesn't know how to feel about that.

Till wonders if Sua knows why Ivan never hides from the snow. He doesn't play in it like the other kids, but he sits there with a book in his hands, letting the flakes fall all over him. It is discomforting to see how easily the specks of white cling to his hair and his shirt. He never brushes them away. It makes him look ashen, a discarded thing slowly gathering dust. The rumors don't seem to bother him. It is as if he is used to being surrounded by little deaths.

When they were even younger, Till's fingers would twitch at his sides, wanting to either flick the snow away in habitual violence or pick out each flake from each strand with a gentleness neither of them could afford. Most of the time, he only managed to stomp his way over. Get that shit off your face, he would say, tapping his sketchbook against Ivan's shoulder. I'm bored, and I want to draw. But that makes you look even worse than usual. Always, it set Ivan into motion. Always, it made Till feel immensely relieved in a way he didn’t understand.

It's a little different now. On the better days, Till tries to tousle Ivan's hair so the flakes will fall off. On the worst days, he pulls out his sketchbook but doesn't say anything else. Somewhere in the middle, when he is shading in a pair of hands, Ivan figures out that Till is drawing him and starts to brush off the snow himself. He doesn't ask to see the end result.

Till hates the snow. He hates everything it leaves behind.

***

“Once upon a time, there was a boy who got tired of wearing his collar,” the children of Anakt Garden whisper to each other in the halls. “He wandered around the corridors, restless. Every day, the collar felt tighter and tighter around his throat. Please, he begged the segyein during his check-ups. There is something wrong with me. Please get this off me. But the segyein did not listen. It’s for your own good, they told him. You will feel much worse without it. But the boy did not believe them. You see, he had seen pictures of the previous humans, the ones who had died with the old world. They had never worn collars. So, the boy did not want to wear one either. Night after night, he snuck into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He tilted his head this way and that, trying to see the collar from all angles. He put his fingers under the band, trying to memorize every metal groove. He tried to push and pull and drag it over his skin, hoping it would come loose. One night, as he felt around the collar with his hands, he heard a click. Before he knew it, the collar was in his hands. Just like he had always wanted.

"At first, the boy was delighted. He jumped up and down, trying to muffle his cheering against his sleeves. But then, he started feeling strange. His mouth watered and his stomach growled, even though he had eaten not too long ago. His feet led him outside the bathroom, down the long hallway to the bedrooms. His body wanted something, but he didn’t know what it was. Somehow, he found himself back in the room, where his roommate was still fast asleep. Standing over him, the boy felt as if his teeth were growing bigger inside his mouth. He licked over them. Earlier, he had only felt this way when they served his favorite jelly in the dining hall. But here, there was only his roommate, softly breathing. As his stomach growled louder, he started to lean down, as if in a trance. When his nose was against his roommate’s throat, he paused. Alive, deliciously so. His heart beat faster inside his chest. Had he ever felt such hunger before? When he came to his senses, there was blood in his mouth. He realized that the segyein had been right. The real danger had been him all along.”

Most of the children in the garden do not remember a time when their necks were free. They are only familiar with the way the segyein shepherd them from room to room, keeping them in a single file. During bi-weekly tests, their arms and legs are always fastened to the chair. There must be something about them that terrifies the segyein, they think. The children have read about how the previous humans hurt each other, especially toward the end. All the weapons they have seen in the hands of the segyein, even the big rifles they use in Alien Stage, had first been made by humans. That must be the reason for the collars, they think. The segyein likely do not want them to turn out the same way.

Perhaps freedom has always been the real monster. After all, what would they do if they could do anything at all? Even the thought of it is unfathomable.

***

“Up above the world so high,” Till sings, his knees closer to his chest. The floor is chafing his cheek. He doesn’t know how long he has been lying here. “Like a diamond in the sky.”

There is only pitch black around him, but not like it was at the beginning of his life. This darkness is unwelcoming. He doesn’t want to stay here, but he no longer has sensation in his feet. Ironically, the only solace has been the light of his collar flickering between orange and red, before settling in on the red. It is the only time he has been able to see the walls around him.

He can feel the hair on his legs standing. They always keep the temperature of this part of the building so low. He must be close to where they keep the kids. The ones who don’t have to sing anymore. It’s almost funny, the way he keeps being brought so close to this place, before eventually being set free again. He wonders if this is his fate: forever tottering on the edge, never truly making it to either side.

He shivers. The first thing one should do when experiencing hypothermia is to preserve body heat, Ivan had told him a long time ago. Of course, back then, they had just swum out of the river after yet another contest of seeing who could hold their breath longer. Till had been shivering, so Ivan had wrapped his arm around his waist. It’s so you don’t get sick, he had whispered, grinning. Till had savored the weight of another body against his own for a few seconds before he had pushed Ivan off.

Now, he would do anything to have that forgotten warmth around him again. But here, there are only his own hands, tucked between his thighs. He tries to ignore the way his pants feel a little damp against his fingers. They have almost dried. It’s the only positive of having been in here for hours. It was a little after lunch that they brought him in here. He hopes that it’s a little past bedtime when the door finally opens, so he can crawl into bed without running into anyone else.

The collar feels like it’s closing up around his throat. Is this who he is meant to be? A rabid thing, frothing at the mouth, until he is put in place? There is a thin line between being brave and humiliated. In the first couple of minutes of pushing back, Till feels like he is on top of the world. With his chest heaving, his body is entirely in his control. But the high is temporary. Like pencil shavings blown away with a single breath, it disappears so quickly. When they bend his wrist at an angle he would never be able to achieve on his own, it is hard to pretend that this is his choice.

Defiance is an act always left incomplete. He has never been able to see it through till the end. Once, he came very close. Once, he followed someone else's shadow all the way to the brink of everything he had ever known. But the possibility of fall had been more terrifying than he had imagined. At least inside the walls of the garden, he knew what was waiting for him. The grass was still soft against his scraped knees, and the scent of the flowers made its way through his stuffy nose. Who knew if there would be any of that out there in the open?

Even if he would never be able to surpass the limits of his existence, the distant sheen of pink hair had made confinement bearable. Would that have remained true if he had kept running? What would have made freedom bearable?

Mizi. In those final few steps, he had thought of Mizi, still slumbering in her bed, fingers clutching one of the stuffed toys her guardian had given her. Mizi, skipping rope, past the bushes during playtime, never missing a beat. Mizi, head on Sua's shoulders, pressed between the pages of his sketchbooks like flowers. Mizi, forever a silhouette, malleable as clay, so effortlessly moulded into hope by his shaking hands.

Wasn't it Mizi who was so much more deserving of this privilege? She had already lived in that universe on the other side, inside her deep seas. Surely, if she got to return, she would thrive. What would Till even do if he made it out alive? He had already been tainted. Wouldn't escaping mean giving up the little solace he had managed to find for himself?

Back then, he hadn't been able to handle the thought of leaving her wide smile behind. Mizi, whose name stood for the unknown, because Till would never really know her. In this way, he could keep her safe. But was it Mizi who needed him, or him who needed Mizi? After all, Till needed to believe in tenderness to survive. But could tenderness persist in the middle of nowhere? Without the false trees and the river and the other children? He saw what happened to the most tenderhearted person he had known as he was snatched from her arms. What happiness could even be waiting for him out there?

Even the fingers that had held his own fingers that night would eventually have to let go, no matter how certain they seemed in their grip. Up until that point, they had other reasons for being who they were. What would he and Ivan do to each other if they only had each other to blame? As turbulent as their relationship had always been, Till had not wanted to lose it, either.

A prophecy: A loser is a moron without any friends, you moron. That is you then, Till.

In the present, Till stifles a sob against his palm. The collar cuts into his skin. Perhaps this is his cross to bear for the remainder of his life.

When the door cracks open an inch, he already knows who it is. The footsteps are heavier, as if padded. There are not a lot of children in the garden who wear shoes. Among them, there are even fewer children who wear shoes that are this nice. Besides, Till can still see faint pen marks on the side of them. He would recognize his own handwriting anywhere. Six months ago, when Till had run out of paper one afternoon, the owner of the shoes had held them up and said that Till could use them instead. They're plain white and boring, anyway. I think you'll make them look more fun. Mizi's face might not be the best fit for these dimensions, though. In agitation, Till had drawn his signature over the lining of the shoes over and over again.

When Ivan leans down, Till catches sight of his bare neck. Without fail, it makes him mad. Ivan wears his freedom so carelessly. He can do anything he wants, but instead, he chooses to follow Till into every barricaded room, picking the lock with a simple flick of his wrist. Till doesn’t know what they would do to him if they saw the brisk motion of his fingers over Till's collar. Ivan may be the favorite, but even he wouldn't escape unscathed. They would cut his hands off, most likely. Hands that are meant for clutching music sheets or the spine of a book. Hands that have made themselves adept at slipping Till's collar off his neck instead.

Sometimes, Till wishes they were still a little clumsier. That way, they would accidentally brush against his skin once or twice, and he could lean into them. Even now, his face still follows their movements, pathetically turning toward the ghost of a touch.

“Oh, Till,” Ivan says, setting the collar down. The red of his pupils seems to gleam brighter.

Till would have bristled and cursed if his throat were not readily gulping in the air. Is this Ivan's regular, collarless oxygen intake? Even if they have done this countless times before, Till still finds himself surprised. If it were left up to the segyein, he would have kept believing that his lungs were capable of so much less. It makes him even more pissed at Ivan's indifference toward this luxury. Ivan, whose face never reflects real joy. Ivan, who walked into the classroom that morning, months ago, with scribbles all over his shoes, as if he were showing them off. The teachers had called him the bigger man out of the two of them. Till thinks that is a generous way of referring to a coward.

Till could never be this unfazed. He feels every little thing, and it shows on his entire being. Even now, he wants to curl into his tummy and try to make himself more opaque. Suddenly, he is eight again and waking up with his nose buried in Ivan's hair, the sheets soaked underneath them. The nightmares, always the nightmares, took ownership of his body so easily. He could roam the halls in the daylight with his fists tightened at his sides, but the darkness was a dead end, forcing him to meet every fear head-on. I told you not to sneak into my bed, he had sobbed into Ivan's shirt, trying not to wake his roommate up. I told you, I told you! No matter how old he gets, he is so often reduced to the helpless child from back then.

“Don't tell Mizi,” Till says, catching the ends of Ivan's sleeve.

But Ivan is a contradiction, too. He pulls Till's leg as if it were second nature, then caresses his face when he least expects it. Once, he had leaned over his desk throughout their lessons, telling Till he smelled like the artificial lavender scent of his erasers, until Till's ears burned. And yet, that night, when he had woken up with Till's fists pounding against his chest, he had only stepped out of the bed, quietly peeling off the sheets. Go to my room and sleep there, he had said, pushing Till toward that door. I will take care of this. The next day, Ivan never brought it up again.

He is the same way now, draping his outer shirt over Till's waist, tying a knot on the side. If Till had been braver, Ivan would not be in this position. Till would not be in this position, either. In these moments, he almost wishes Ivan would look him in the eye and say, I told you so. But Ivan is never cruel in the way Till needs him to be. He has peeled the bloody socks off Till's feet, only to slip over his hands and move them up and down, like puppets, until Till laughed. It would be wrong to call him kind—it is more like he is simply unmoved by Till's shame.

Even now, Ivan puts Till's collar in his pocket. Then, he drags Till's arm over his own shoulders and pulls him up until they are standing side-by-side again. Unsteady on his feet, Till finds himself leaning into Ivan's chest. Faintly, he catches a whiff of something sweet.

“Did you know that the first eggs came from chickens?" Ivan asks as they begin walking. His other hand comes to rest on Till's waist, adding to the weight of his tied-up shirt. “They were birds that couldn't fly, and they laid dozens of eggs every day. Newer chickens were born from these eggs. But the eggs we eat are different. It takes a long time to manufacture them and get them to the right consistency. That is why we only have them once a year or even less.”

Till can feel his eyelids start to droop. He isn't sure what part of the building they are in, but Ivan's voice makes him feel grounded. “It's funny, right?” Ivan says, carrying both of them through the dark, as he had done once. This time, there are no stars to guide their path. “Segyein technology has advanced so far, but a simple egg defeats them. Something so ordinary that the older humans did not even think twice about it. No matter how hard the segyein try, they will never truly be able to create something of their own.”

It is rare for Ivan to let go of his farce of obedience and say what he truly feels. Despite himself, Till cherishes these moments. But it is hard to keep hold of his head when he feels more tired with every step. “That's a good one,” Till mumbles, before slumping down against Ivan.

He doesn't remember making it all the way to his room again. At least now that they are older, he no longer has to worry about another person seeing him this way. Ivan is different because Ivan has never asked for permission. He barges in on all of Till's vulnerable moments and refuses to leave. Till doesn't know if he feels grateful or disrespected.

His last memory of the night is of the sheets being pulled over him. His cheek is tickling, as if something is breathing close to him. There is some kind of sound in his ear. He thinks it might be the world’s worst lullaby, horribly off-tune. Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up, it goes.

When he wakes up the next morning, he will be drooling into his pillow, wearing dry pants that are two sizes bigger. His cheek will be imprinted with the criss-cross pattern on the sheets, but his hair will suspiciously be tamed, as if someone had spent the whole of last night tucking each strand in place.

***

“If you ever step foot outside the garden, you will never believe what is in front of your eyes,” the children of Anakt Garden whisper to each other in the halls. “First, you will see speed bumps and warning signs. YOU ARE LEAVING HOME, the signs will say. Then, the buildings will disappear. Out there, there is no grass covering the ground. No matter where you look, there are only empty roads. The planet is empty, abandoned. Once, there was a certain species of segyein living here. Now, there are only ruins left behind. If you walk far enough, you might start to see bones, half-buried in the soil. Do you want to guess what these are? They will still be dressed in their white uniforms, collars clutched in their hands, battery long dead. These are the children who have tried to run away, only to meet their end. Some say it is because they could find nothing to eat or drink. Others say it because something much bigger than the segyein found them. But one thing that is true: If you look closer, you will realize that their feet will always be in the direction of the garden, as if they were trying to go back.”

An invisible chain link fence runs all around the outermost boundaries of the garden. At least, this is what the children believe. How else would the segyein be keeping them inside? If a child crosses the invisible fence while wearing their collar, their head will pop, like a bubble. It is a much more merciful way to die than whatever might be waiting for them outside the gates. Without all these precautions, wouldn't more children have tried to escape? Wouldn't they all have heard about them?

Desolation and demise are the only answers. What else could possibly be holding all of them back?

***

Here are the things Till likes to draw the most: Flowers, trees, Urak hanging up-side-down from a branch, xylophones and recorders, the fish in the river, Mizi's face when she laughs, mountain ranges, butterflies, Ivan snoring and drooling all over the grass, music notes, and an outline of older and wiser teal eyes.

In his hands, the paper becomes a tiny universe, blank and free of any expectations. Whatever he desires can be contained inside it. The segyein can never ruin any of those things. Neither can Till himself. On paper, there are infinite chances. If he makes any mistakes, they can simply be erased in a single move. Till doesn't believe in the gods, but if he did, he would understand how they let everything get this after. This kind of power is exhilarating. He doesn't want to let go of it.

That is why he likes to ask Ivan questions about the books he reads. He wants to know about the world that existed before any of them. He likes to wonder how much of it must have survived. What lies between the glass covered in sale stickers and the front entrance of the garden? A mountain? A sea? It must be beautiful, surely. As long as it stays on the page, it can remain beautiful eternally.

But reality might not be the same. Is this what he had been thinking when his feet stopped back then? Perhaps what was out there was so different from what he imagined. If that was true, then what would he have been fighting for?

The truth is that there are no fences in the garden. The segyein have not set up any barricades to prevent escapes. That night, the only thing that had stood in Till's way was himself. You would have never made it without me, Urak used to say. After a lifetime of refuting his guardian, had Till really believed him, after all?

In those final moments, Till had thought that if he took another step, everything would collapse around them. That has to be true, even now. Selfishly, he wants it to be true. Because the alternative is that nothing would have changed if he had continued forward. And that is so much worse.

So, he continues to draw, even if it is hard. He traces lost items on the paper: His pencils. His candies. His guitar picks. A silhouette of Ivan and him under the tree at the top of the hill. Ivan, empty of his usual taunts, with his hands behind his back, tipping his head toward Till. Between them, a peace that would never exist again.

He wants to take them out from under the tree. He wants to put them in a place that feels safe. Distinctly, he thinks of Mizi, one of the only people who carries memories of a life far beyond here. Water, she had said, is beautiful. It keeps flowing. Time doesn't feel real when you are inside water. There are jellyfish and seaweeds, and schools of fish! In the water, you are never alone. So, he does the only thing he can and draws waves around the two of them. He gives a fish Ivan's eyes—the ones that are always looking at Till.

There is one last thing that Till likes to draw. He never draws them in his notebook. He saves them for the wrinkled pages, the ones he keeps beneath the mattress, beneath the weight of everything else. It has been so long, but he still remembers, just as vividly—the stars, as he saw them that night. There are other parts of the night he can’t bear to think about: the sweaty fingers gripping his own; the grass damp under his feet, which only kept running in the direction of that breathless laughter. There are other parts of the night he can’t bear to think about, so he thinks of the stars. He sometimes spends hours hunched over the paper, until the pencil has been reduced to a tiny stub and there is nothing else left to color in the brightness.

One day, Till will draw enough of them. One day, he will be able to return every fallen star back to the sky. Maybe then, Ivan will lean over his shoulder and ask him what he is making. Maybe then, he will steal Till's pencil from his grasp. Maybe then, when Till pushes him over and tries to get it back, his clammy hands will find those familiar fingers. This time, when he hears that laugh, he will move toward it as he did all those years ago. With the eagerness of a child inches away from freedom.

***

“There are more versions of you than you realize,” the children of Anakt Garden whisper to each other in the halls. “In the shops, in the laboratories. The segyein have to have spare parts, you know? In case you are not a good fit. In case you don't do well. These versions of you still have your face. They eat like you. They speak like you. It would be really hard to tell you apart. But these versions of you might get restless. They might not want to spend the rest of their lives in the shadows. So, be careful wandering in the garden. If you walk too far, you might feel like you are being followed. If you turn around too suddenly, you might think you are looking into a mirror. But the one on the other side will still be you, just another you. If this happens, you have to try and stand your ground. Otherwise, the one who returns may not exactly be you.”

The children know that they are not unique. In their lessons, they have learned that birth is a matter of trial and error. You are the ones who came into existence out of all the possible combinations, their teachers tell them, stamping the red ANAKT logo on the backs of their hands. Branded, even in their achievements. It means you are special. Yet, deep down, the children understand that they are the spare of a spare of a spare. Who knows how many had come before them? Who knows how many would come after?

What makes a person truly themselves? If every little thing about them has been measured and manufactured, is there really anything that is truly theirs?

***

Till is close to crossing out the whole chord progression for the chorus when the ball rolls past him, disappearing into the bushes.

“I told you not to throw it so hard, Acorn!” Someone yells, followed by a thud.

“Ow! I didn't do it on purpose! Besides, you also did tell me not to let them get the ball.”

“Doesn't matter,” the voice continues. It's Yeong, Till recognizes, as the voices get closer. “You have to go and get it now.”

“Dude, you saw where it went. I'm not going!”

“What do you mean you won't go? If not you, then who—”

“I can go and get it,” Till says, as the two boys make their way around the corner, shoving at each other. He doesn’t wait to see the looks on their faces before he shoves the pages in his pocket and walks in the direction the ball went.

Today, there's a slight breeze in the garden. It leaves the paper skies crinkled along the edges. Tufts of green tickle Till's ankles as he goes farther away from the noises of the other students. No one likes coming to this part of the garden. It's where things go and vanish entirely. Balls, frisbees, handkerchiefs. Even other students, if rumors are anything to go by, but Till doesn't quite believe in them. The answer is never that paranormal.

“Let's see,” he mutters, waving his hand in the air, chasing an imaginary flower crown. “It must be somewhere around here.”

Sure enough, in a couple of tries, something glitches underneath his fingers. He feels himself push past an invisible heaviness, as if walking through foam. When he blinks, the entrance of the cave looms ahead of him.

Treading into the cave brings forth a sense of déjà vu. He ran through here once, unknowing of everything else. On the other side, there had been Mizi, hands pressed over her mouth. Her legs were shaking, but she remained standing. In a way, maybe it had been a prediction for the future. The beast had grunted at them, its saliva clumping on the ground. Till, on all fours, hand grunted back, his chest moving up and down rapidly. Somewhere in the corners, scattered flowers, long forgotten.

Are all beginnings this violent? Back then, everything had seemed so straightforward, including fear. Like the children who whisper about the creature that guards the garden from within a hollow cavity, Till had thought he knew who was responsible for all the bad parts of their lives. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he had not yet stumbled across his own cowardice.

Now, he still blames the segyein for most of it. But he can no longer say he had no hand in his own fate. Guilt has taken root inside of him.

When he emerges from the other end of the cave, he sees the ball lying in front of a giant paw. The wagyein turns its heads toward him, its jaws snapping onto emptiness. Inexplicably, he thinks of Ivan with his head shoved between rows of sharp teeth, so different from Till in the way he seemed to have such a loose grip on his own existence. If those jaws had closed around, he might not even have flinched.

Ivan, guiding Till's hand on the wagyein's snout. Do it slowly, he had said, dragging their connected palms over its wet nostrils. If you do it like this, it won't hurt you. Ivan, befriending monsters, giving Till one less thing to be afraid of. If he vanished, there would be a gaping absence the size of a star in Till's life. And stars could be pretty big, he has realized.

Till scratches under the wagyein's chin, listening to its long howl. An echo of grief. Till still has to bite his lips to stop them from breaking out into a grimace. Even if he knows the wagyein is nothing like the guardians and the teachers, he still feels a little disgusted every time he does this. Till wonders if he is betraying himself. Still, this is his choice, isn't it? In Anakt Garden, where every little thing is manufactured, this moment right here is beyond the segyein's collective imagination. This is the crack in the simulation.

In the distance, the sound of rocks falling. But Till knows nothing is coming for him. All rumors are just variations of the same truth. And he has long been familiar with the truth.

When he returns, Acorn and Yeong are right where he left them. Acorn, still biting his nails, looks up when Till steps out of the bushes. Till throws the ball toward the two of them.

“Dude! I thought you were done for good!”

“Me too,” Yeong says, catching the ball. “You're so brave, Till. Are you really not scared of the monster?”

Till looks past them toward the big tree under which two segyein in white coats are waiting. One of them raises their scaly fingers, pointing at him.

“Monsters aren't real,” Till says, shoulders bumping into Acorn's as he walks forward.

By the time he reaches the segyein, the tremors in his hands have already settled.

“We need to run a few tests, Till,” one of the segyein says. There is a claw on the back of his neck. Till thinks that calling something a monster absolves it of all responsibility. “As always, your contributions are very much appreciated.”

Monsters aren't real. He stands by it.

***

“It knows you by your scent,” the children of Anakt Garden whisper to each other in the halls. “It is always waiting in the shadows. If you put your ear against the wall after lights out, you will be able to hear its breathing. It won’t do anything to you, not right away. But if you get three Cs on your practicals or get sent to solitary three weeks in a row, it will know that you are next. You know the sound that sometimes echoes through the old pipes in the bathrooms? That weird grating of metal? That is the sound of its teeth, slowly being sharpened. Of course, it still won’t come for you. First, you will feel its eyes on your back when you’re sitting at your desk in class or standing in line for food in the dining room. Then you will find pieces of its fur between the pages of your books and on your pillowcase. Every night, its breathing will grow louder and louder, until you can hear it in your room itself. When that happens, don’t look in front of you. Don’t look behind you either. Look up. It will always be standing above you. It's two sets of crimson eyes staring back at you. That will be the last thing you ever see.”

But Till knows that the wagyein in the cave is just like all the pet humans, doomed to function as per the segyein's commands. He knows this, just like how he knows that there is no Great Anakt, that if the snow is made of death, it is not the kind of death they can imagine, that children don't lose control of themselves when their collars are removed, and that the terrors outside the garden are no worse than the terrors inside. There is no other version of him who is coming to take his place. There is no other version of him who has made all his mistakes.

He has to live through all of this as himself.

***

Left foot, first. Left, right, left, left, left. Till tries to keep his right foot in the air as much as possible, only letting it graze the floor when it feels like he is losing balance. Hopscotch, he thinks, stumbling through the corridor. It's like playing hopscotch.

The door screeches on its hinges when he pushes it open, but he doesn't mind it. The boy inside has always been a deep sleeper. Even when all the other boys on their floor complained about Till's guitar keeping them up, the boy in the room next to his had not said anything. Till himself is a very light sleeper, so he envies the ability to be at this much ease.

Ivan's eyes are indeed closed when Till walks over to the bed. His arms are crossed against his chest—he sleeps as if he is ready to pass away. Till wonders what he has been through that has taught him to be so static. He stares at the strands of hair over Ivan’s forehead, finally allowed to curl into their natural shape. It makes him look so much younger. Ivan will deny it, but there is even a slight trail of drool on the side of his lips.

A sudden memory: Ivan's eyes, alight with meteor dust. His lips twisting into something a little better than a sneer but so much worse than a smile. But this memory cannot be real because Till had started running back even before Ivan turned. There's no way for him to know what Ivan's face had looked like back then.

Still, it makes him climb onto the mattress, wincing when his foot brushes against the sheets. The beds are small, so when he lies down, his cheek is squished against Ivan's arm. He puts his feet over Ivan's legs. A swollen foot must be elevated to allow blood circulation, a voice says in his mind. As much as he complains about the nonsense Ivan says, it turns out that Till can't make. Ivan stop talking even when he is asleep.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” Till whispers, and Ivan twitches, slightly turning toward him. He is so much more honest right now. As gently as possible, Till presses closer. Like this, everything hurts a little less. He hopes that the person who used to sing him to sleep hasn't been too worried about him. It turns out he isn't as alone as either of them thought he would be. More than anything, he is still singing. He refuses to let her voice die.

Holding Ivan's sleeve between his index finger and thumb, Till closes his eyes. Butterflies, he distantly remembers, hatch from eggs too. They are a little more than worms at the start of their lives, so much uglier. Then, they are trapped inside shapeless webs, stuck to leaves. Only after all of that do they get wings.

Butterflies get so many chances to be beautiful. All their little flaws are redeemed infinite times. Till wishes the same for the two of them. Perhaps when they wake up, they will be in a place that is so much more forgiving.

His foot throbs. Over there, nothing will ever bring them pain. Not even each other.

With two sets of breath filling the silence, Till hopes that the stars listen to them this time.