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"Sick of these nights to come, to be engulfed in silence..."
Till ignores him and paces, back and forth, back and forth.
"In your gaze, where I'm seen, consume me, yes, me..."
Back and forth, back and forth, lungs heaving.
"To this everlasting melody, face to face..."
Finally, Ivan stops singing. Till can feel his gaze bearing into his back.
"You know, this is a duet," the older man says, matter-of-factly. "It'd be nice if you'd sing with me and make use of our last practice session like we're supposed to be doing."
What absolute fucking dogshit.
All Till wants to do is turn around and snap at him, but he has better things to focus his anger on. Such as this fucking cord around his neck. It binds him to the ceiling of the rehearsal room, loosely enough that he can't choke himself (and boy, has he tried), but taut enough that he can't get any further than the door before he's stopped in his tracks. He can't even go to the bathroom without permission, which is a level of humiliation that Till's used to by now, but is still nauseated by. He doesn't need to go, but he kind of wants to try and make himself vomit, if only for something to do.
"Go fuck yourself," he mutters, no real fire behind it.
He brings his hands absently to his throat, mind buzzing. Gunshots ring through his mind, and with each one, his nails dig in deeper to his skin.
Till knows very well that this cord won't break, and only a segyein can take his collar off. Still - he's nothing if he doesn't try. It's not him that it matters to if he leaves marks on himself for the next round.
Unfortunately, it's not just the aliens who care about it, either.
"Stop that," he suddenly hears, rather sharply, and he isn't given time to turn around before Ivan's up from his seat and at his side, touching him. Gloved white hands remove Till's hands from his own throat, forcefully and with almost no gentleness, although at the very least Ivan doesn't squeeze his wrists in the way that Urak sometimes does that makes it painful to play guitar for days. Ivan's eyes glitter crimson at the centre, fixed on Till's neck, as if examining him for injuries. His snaggletooth juts out between his lips as he frowns. "No wonder they're always tying you up, if you're still taking every single opportunity to try and hurt yourself possible even now."
Till lets out a sharp laugh, pushing Ivan away. His heart stutters as he moves too quickly and gets dizzy. "You would be too, if you were me."
He raises a hand to rub at his neck, and rolls his eyes as he notices Ivan watching him intently, as if it's even possible for Till to cause any injuries worse than soft surface damage to himself. He's not allowed anything sharp, he can't go anywhere where he could do anything suspicious unmonitored, he's even forced to keep his nails short to prevent him from doing exactly what he just tried to do. Urak's basically had him on twenty four-seven suicide watch since he was seventeen and tried to slit his wrists before going out in front of a crowd, even though he'd never bothered trying anything serious since then. Till's known for a long time that there is no getting out of here, and no freedom to even dream of.
The rehearsal room is large enough for both of them to sit comfortably, applying the illusion that they're being treated nicely for a change. A large glass mirror reflects comfy black couches in a square formation in the centre of the room and a sleek wood table with a spread of snack food on it, some of which is entirely foreign to Till. Lights around the ceiling cast the two men in a soft orange glow. If Urak hadn't forced Till into these uncomfortable silver shoes, he'd be able to feel plush red carpet against his toes. As it is, the brightness of the room is overstimulating. It'd been worse half an hour ago, but Ivan had either picked up on his discomfort or been on his same wavelength, because he'd politely asked one of the segyein guards outside to dim the lights, and they'd done it, because Ivan is so perfect and pleases everybody and always gets what he wants.
They're going onstage in thirty minutes.
In thirty five minutes, Till is going to die.
He turns his head away, and accidentally makes eye contact with himself in the mirror. He looks like absolute shit. His eyes are dark and shadowed from several days of no sleep, and despite how much makeup he has on his face and body, it's difficult to hide the bruises all over him. Every time Urak lets the other segyeins borrow him, to sing for them or whatever else, he always makes them sign a contract that they aren't allowed to leave marks on him. I can't have damaged merchandise. That contract had been broken last night. Urak had been grumbling the whole time his team was getting Till ready this morning, complaining about the marks on his upper arms and his hips. They'd had to alter his outfit slightly to cover everything. Till couldn't give less of a shit. He hates everything they make him wear, just because it's not his choice and never will be.
Ivan looks as put together as always, face lightly dusted with makeup, expression and body language perfectly unreadable. He's even wearing white, like he's getting married the way humans used to in those classic novels he owns that Till had sneaked peeks at in the past. Just the thought makes Till's throat dry up.
In the mirror, Till sees Ivan tilt his head, doglike, and sit back down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other, completely relaxed. Gingerly, he removes his white gloves and sets them down on the table before picking up a rice cake from the food spread that Till hasn't touched and biting down. He winces, indicating that the red flakes coating it are indeed chilli, but finishes it off, licking his lips afterwards.
Till's collar flickers from orange to bright red. His vision blurs slightly.
"Sit down," Ivan says, so nonchalant as always. He pats the space on the couch beside him, catching Till's eye in the mirror. Till watches his gaze lower to Till's collar, and sees his eyebrows tense. "You're so uptight, Till, it'd do you some good to relax and eat something before we finish practising."
Till scoffs before turning and setting off pacing again around the square of couches again.
"I don't need to practice," he mutters, voice hoarse. "I'm not going to sing."
There's a pause. Then - "Oh, really?"
Ivan says this in the same tone that Urak sometimes uses whenever Till promises harm on himself or others when being forced to do something he doesn't want to do. Like he's still a child being spoken down to, like he's being ridiculous and silly. Till grinds his teeth, biting back anger.
"Yes, really," he says. He looks anywhere but at Ivan, breaths coming unevenly. "So you can take an easy win and spare your actual energy for singing against Luka in the final round."
He's unnerved by Ivan's silence after this, so he finally looks over at him when he comes back around the couches. Ivan is watching him intently, which Till hadn't expected, and his shoulders jump to his ears.
"What?" he snarls, digging his nails into his palms. "The fuck's your problem?"
"Oh, nothing," Ivan says easily, picking up another rice cake between his fingers and spinning it around. "It's just that my singing partner's just told me half an hour before we go on stage that he's not actually planning to sing and he's going to leave me high and dry in front of everybody instead."
"Oh, shut the fuck up," Till snaps, picking up the pace again. Of course that's what his problem is. "Just sing anything, it doesn't have to be Cure. As long as you open your mouth and sound comes out, you'll automatically have more points than I will."
Ivan blinks, looking stupid. "You think I'm upset because I'm singing a duet and I'll look silly singing it on my own?"
Till raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting. "So that's not the problem?"
"No, Till," Ivan says, frowning deeply. "Weirdly, that's not the problem. You're planning to essentially commit suicide to let me win."
"Don't flatter yourself," Till scoffs. He accidentally looks at himself in the mirror again. Skinny and gross, exhausted looking. The eyebags add to the "mysterious idol" appeal, Urak had said to his makeup artists earlier, when they'd tried applying concealer underneath his eyes. Leave them alone. Till shudders. "I'm not doing this because of you."
Mizi's face flashes before his eyes. Her missing poster, where she's grinning wide, eyes thin and sparkling with mirth behind her glasses. Nausea rolls in his stomach. He'd rather die right now than call a guard in here to get permission to go to the bathroom, so if he's going to throw up, he's doing it in the trash can beneath the dressing table and Ivan can just fucking deal with it.
When he'd sang in round two, there was still a chance. A small semblance of a chance that everything could somehow be ok. Till had been clinging to it with both hands, holding it as tightly as possible, praying that somehow, some way, a miracle would occur and things wouldn't end up like this.
Watching Mizi snap against Luka and get dragged away by the guards, gun to her head while she screamed and clawed for freedom before the screens cut to black, felt like the world ending.
Till clutches his stomach. He doesn't think he even has anything in him to throw up.
Thankfully, Ivan doesn't ask him why. He almost certainly already knows. The loss of Mizi and Sua had hit them both hard, even though they'd both coped with it in different ways. They hadn't spoken to each other once after the first round. They'd made the briefest eye contact, and Ivan must have known, from his haunted expression, that there weren't words he could say that would mean anything to Till in that moment. Even now, he sees Sua's body crumpling neatly, a smile relaxing on her face, and Mizi's fair skin, stained with blood as she fell beside her like she had just died too.
The reality hit them all at once, he thinks. None of them are leaving this place alive.
Till's known this for a long, long time, but it's more real now than it ever has been before.
"So that's your plan," Ivan speaks up, reminding Till of his presence. "You're going to leave me to sing all by myself, resigning yourself to death without even doing anything about it."
Till kicks the side of the couch. "Yep."
He hears Ivan inhale and exhale slowly. When he looks at him, Ivan's expression is just as impossible to decipher as always. He's still looking at Till, but not at his face. His eyes flicker up and down, drinking him in in a way that makes Till feel rather disgustingly like a piece of meat.
He's about to speak again - to say what, he doesn't know, but he can't stand the way he's being looked at - but Ivan gets there first.
"Why?" he asks pointedly.
Till curls his lip, answer already at the ready. "Well, in case you've forgotten, I'm "dangerous,"" he says, pitching his voice on the last word. "I don't have many other ways I can try and rebel. One wrong move from me and I'm getting my fucking brains splattered on the stage. Even if I wanted to do something crazy like jump into the crowd or try and escape, I wouldn't be able to. They'll be especially on edge with me now, since they're all out there placing bets on me dying, so they'll be expecting me to do something crazy."
Then he spares Ivan a curious glance. "I guess I could take you hostage and use you as a human shield..."
It's not in any way a serious suggestion, and Ivan doesn't take it that way either, obvious from the way his eyes sparkle and lips twitch at the corners. He still doesn't smile very much, not when he isn't being interviewed or in front of a crowd. Till recalls a moment from when they were children and he'd questioned the bruises on the older boy's cheeks. Ivan had told him with a rather drowsy expression that he was getting image making training to make him smile better. They told me I smile really unnaturally and it makes people uncomfortable, he had said then. I have to get better at it if I want to be an idol.
Even at the time, Till had thought that was weird, because he'd seen Ivan smile several times and he'd always looked completely natural and genuine. He thought maybe segyeins just have a different standard of what looks "natural."
Now he knows the real truth - none of them, even Ivan with his rich, powerful owners and perfectly obedient nature, were ever good enough for the fuckers at ANAKT Garden.
"I guess you could," Ivan replies, words teasing but tone not reflecting it. Ivan has always been so bad at tone. He'd never quite mastered the art of sarcasm, making his words sound serious when he's intending to joke. Till knows what he means, though. "I suppose there's a chance they could shoot us both, though. Best not to risk it."
How stupid. They wouldn't dare shoot them both. Have two out of the top three die in one round, and leave no one for Luka to demolish in the final? It'd be a massive money loss for Alien Stage, and people would be angry for weeks. However, Till agrees with Ivan even so. Something about the thought of the both of them dying in each other's arms makes him feel more sick than before, stomach fluttering.
Something touches his wrist. Till flinches, hard, memories of the violence suffered the previous night flooding back, but it's just Ivan. He'd waited for him to come back around and grabbed him, stopping him in his tracks. Ivan's hand wraps around Till's wrist effortlessly, still leaving space for his fingers to touch on the other side.
Ivan looks at where they're touching, eyes trailing up Till's arm at the thick, neatly raised scars on the inside. Till swallows, but doesn't pull away.
The realization that Ivan is going to be the only one around when he dies is hitting him, and he's disgusted by how comforting it is. Even at seventeen, cutting himself in a bathroom with a broken piece of glass that had escaped Urak's notice when a mug had toppled over, he hadn't truly wanted to die alone.
This won't be the worst way to go. If he had to pick somebody to be there with him when he died...
He wouldn't have picked Mizi. In fact, he's sickeningly grateful right now that she's gone, and won't have to watch what's about to happen to him. She always was so innocent, so fragile. He'd never want to put her through that. No, he thinks he might have always picked Ivan. Out of all the other kids in the Garden, he was the one who annoyed Till the most, but was also always gentlest when it truly mattered.
Whatever that means.
"Sing with me," Ivan says, voice soft. His eyes, dark and hollow, shine underneath the lights.
Now, Till tries to tug himself out of Ivan's grip, but the older doesn't budge. Ivan always was physically stronger than Till. He gives up quickly and scowls instead.
"I said I don't need to," he says irritably. "Since I won't be when -"
"I meant on stage," Ivan interrupts. "Sing with me on stage, Till, one last time."
Till shakes his head, heart picking up within his chest. "I don't - I said I won't. I'm not humiliating myself for their entertainment anymore. I'm going to die either way."
Ivan blinks slowly. "Not necessarily," he says. "We're competing, remember."
"Yeah, as if they'd ever choose me over you," Till says skeptically. "People barely like me. They want me to die out there, because they're all rooting for you to go up against Luka. The two prettiest, most charming idols of this era, beloved by all - it'll be the show of the century!"
He lets out a sarcastic gasp, widening his eyes to match and clapping his free hand to his cheek. Ivan's lips part, his tooth poking through again, and Till realizes his grip has loosened enough for him to finally be able to pull away, which he promptly does. He doesn't resume his pacing yet, though, and instead waits for Ivan to speak again. He looks somewhat like Till's just kicked him in the stomach.
"You think I'm pretty?" he questions, and his lips twitch at the corners again.
Till rolls his eyes and starts off again, trying to get out all his nervous energy.
He hears Ivan let out a small laugh, but when he snaps around to look at him, he's as composed as always, popping another rice cake in his mouth.
"You're not guaranteed to die out there," he says, once he's finished chewing. "Despite your intense self hatred, you're fairly well liked. Your guardian and his team does a good job making your rebellious behaviour come across as quirky and cute."
Till grits his teeth, nauseated by the implication, even though it's entirely true. Every act of rebellion from him is cooed at by his audience, every curse word and rude gesture treated like it's an angry meow coming from a harmless kitten. Till is damn well aware of how Urak brands him, of how people see him. He's angry all the time because of it.
The only things Urak has always been consistently irritated by Till doing are his various acts of self harm, which are infinitely harder to cover up or play off to his fanbase. Which make him uglier and less appealing, which make Urak angry every time. It's the very reason he keeps doing it.
"Don't play dumb," he says. "It's pissing me off. You know I'm going to die too, don't you?"
He glares at Ivan's glittery black-red eyes and that stupid fucking snaggletooth that his guardian had never had fixed despite the painful dental problems he'd had as a result because it was "cute." Till hates how cool and collected Ivan always is. Just once, he'd love to see him scared, angry, crying, anything. He's only caught brief glimpses of Ivan with his walls down throughout the years they'd known one another. Sometimes, he thinks maybe that's all Ivan's capable of - small flashes of emotion, nothing with any actual substance or meaning.
He's certainly capable of being fucking annoying.
"I don't think so," Ivan says seriously. He takes a swig of water, wiping his lips primly with a napkin. "You could beat me easily, and even win against Luka at that."
Till's eyebrows shoot upwards. Does this guy think he's an absolute idiot?
"No, I could not," he says crossly, coming around to the other side of the couch so he can grip it tightly with white fingers and glare at Ivan while he speaks. "This competition isn't just about talent. It's about popularity, personality, looks. You and Luka have all of that. In their eyes, I have none."
Ivan's eyes glitter brighter. "You seem awfully convinced."
"There are popularity polls, you shithead," Till tells him, digging his nails into the soft plush of the couch. "Before the competition even started, I was near the bottom on almost every single one. Now, everybody who was below me is dead. Who do you think the people are gonna want to see sing more, huh?"
Ivan just looks at him. It's fascinating, how someone so objectively clever can look so stupid without even trying. Weirdly enough, there isn't any pity in his eyes when he looks at him like Till sometimes sees in Urak's face when Till's throwing a fit before a show or a photoshoot. He still looks calm, but there's a tenseness in his shoulders now that wasn't there before.
"Sing with me," he insists once more, and Till throws his hands up in the air. Ivan continues, ignoring Till's fury. "Just once more, Till, and you'll never have to do it again. You and me. One of us is guaranteed to die out there. Won't you allow me the dignity of getting to actually perform with you one more time before the end?"
Till breathes heavily, wanting to scream. Turning around means facing the mirror again. He hates that it's so big, all encompassing, making it impossible to avoid every single one of his physical flaws that have been picked to shreds time and time again by segyeins on the internet. Impossible to avoid the way Ivan's looking at him. Till clutches his stomach again, once again eyeing the trash can underneath the desk, deciding whether he needs to lunge for it or not.
He can feel Ivan getting to his feet again. Waltzing over to Till without a care, and stopping just behind him. His breath is warm on Till's ear, although he doesn't touch him again. He must know that Till will blow up if he does. After all, he was there last night, undoing Till's collar and binds in the aftermath of the damage that had been done to him. He surely had picked up on the obvious implications of Till's rumpled clothes, hastily yanked back onto his body, and the marks on his skin and face that weren't yet covered up by makeup. There's no way he didn't notice it.
Till despises the fact that he knows, but at the same time, it's keeping Ivan from touching him now, so it's not the worst thing. It won't matter when he's dead anyway.
"Just once more," Ivan whispers. His breath smells like chillies. "Sing with me, Till?"
Till swallows harshly. His throat hurts. His head hurts. Everything kind of hurts.
"Fine," he mutters, and closes his eyes. Only because it's you.
He hears Ivan's breath hitch, and turns around to meet his eyes. He looks moderately surprised, an expression that's elating to Till - he'd thrown him off his game.
Regardless of how one looks at it, Ivan is always good looking. Up close, he's even more so. Till had always been jealous of the praise he received for his looks in their youth, especially when he himself was disregarded for being conventionally unattractive. Urak had made sure to let him know time and time again that his voice was the only reason he was allowed to live. Every time one of their teachers had used Ivan as a positive example in class for the way he presented and conducted himself, Till had only wanted to hate him more.
It had never really worked. Till wishes it had, now. It would make this so much easier.
"I'll sing with you," he says, watching Ivan's expression as he says it. Desperately wanting to see something more change. "I'll take the request as your dying wish."
Ivan lets out a laugh, short and hot. He gets the closest he has this whole time to a smile, but still not quite there.
"You've changed your mind?" he questions, tilting his head. "You think you might win now instead?"
Till huffs, crossing his arms. "Nope. But you'll definitely be losing against Luka tomorrow, pretty much guaranteed, so."
He turns away to pace again, blood buzzing in his veins. As he does, he hears Ivan hum amusedly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Till."
"Nothing against you," Till says. "But Luka's won the competition before and there's no doubt that he's everyone's favourite. I think it'll be close, but I can't see either of us getting out of this alive."
"Is that so," Ivan says. His tone is once again unreadable.
"Sure is," Till replies softly.
Thinking about how close he is to dying again makes his stomach lurch. A dizzy spell he wasn't expecting takes him over, and he stumbles against the corner of one of the couches, tripping over his own clunky shoes. He tries to grab for the arm of the couch, but misses, and the world spins as he falls, the ground coming closer and closer to his face.
He expects to just eat shit instantly, but instead, two large hands grab his shoulder and upper arm, preventing him from hitting the ground. Ivan hauls him back up - and how he'd gotten to Till's side so fast is completely unknown to him - with a nonchalant expression on his face. Till sways, unable to stay steady and having to cling embarrassingly to Ivan's arms for a moment while everything wobbles back into place in his vision.
Without even asking, Ivan starts to drag him over to the couches, and finally, Till comes back to himself and shakes his head. "Stop," he demands, shoving the man's hands away even though he's not quite steady enough to stand on his own yet. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."
"You aren't fine, actually," Ivan says pleasantly. Crimson eyes bear into Till's skin. "You've been having a panic attack for at least the last hour, and possibly even longer."
Till swallows roughly, throat dry. "I have not."
"Yes you have," Ivan confirms, leaving no room for argument. Till makes some anyway, because he's nothing if not constantly combative, even if Ivan might not actually be wrong.
"Shut the fuck up," he snarls. He hugs himself tightly, digging his nails into his upper arms, wishing they were long enough to break the skin and spill blood. "You don't know fucking anything."
"Your collar is flashing bright red," Ivan points out. There's an unhappy twist to his mouth, and even his usually relaxed stance is currently tenser than usual. "If you don't calm down, you're going to signal to the guards outside that you're having a medical emergency and they'll come in here to check up on you."
Till hadn't realized his collar had gotten to the point of flashing. Ivan is right, as per fucking usual. If it goes on for too long like that, his extremely elevated heart rate and strangled breathing will make it seem like he's in severe enough distress that he needs to be looked at. Urak keeps a very close eye on Till's vitals when he's close to performing, ever since the incident in the bathroom at seventeen, and fuck knows he doesn't want his guardian bursting in here to berate him for freaking out so close to him going onstage.
Exposing weakness around Urak is like dangling bloody meat in front of a starving dog, and Till would rather die a thousand times over than let him see him in a state like this any more than he can possibly avoid.
He tries to reply to Ivan's concerned statement, but his breathing is coming so quickly that he physically can't. Black spots dance in front of his eyes.
This time, when Ivan guides Till to the couch and sits him down beside him, Till doesn't fight it. He doesn't even have the energy to try.
He pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them, uncaring for the way the heels of his shoes dig into the plush upholstery. The bruises on his hips and thighs are exaggerated in this position, and it hurts so bad he wants to scream, but he's been through worse. Till's been through so much worse. This is just the aftermath of the pain he went through last night, and depending on how much a bullet through the throat is going to hurt, it won't be the worst thing he'll experience in one twenty four hour period.
Something pokes him in the forehead, and he snaps his head up to yell at Ivan for trying to piss him off, only to see that the thing he's being poked with is a rice cake, and that Ivan is snickering as he hands it to him.
It stops Till in his tracks. Not quite a smile, but close. His tooth pokes out again as his lips curl upwards, eyes thinning with mirth at Till's indignant expression. Always so amused by Till's pain, always finding his suffering so fucking funny.
"Eat something," Ivan says. "If you are going to perform after all, you'll need the strength."
Till turns his head sideways so he can see him. "No fucking thanks," he says flatly. "I don't particularly want to shit myself when my brains get blown out in twenty minutes."
Ivan is seemingly unfazed by this. "What a positively disgusting thing to be so concerned about," he says lightly. "Well, I have some good news. If you do die on stage today, you won't have digested anything that you eat right now by that point, so that shouldn't be a problem for you."
Till stares at him blankly. Ivan stares back before carefully balancing the rice cake he was handing Till on his knee and reaching over to the table to grab another one for himself.
Giving up, Till picks up the rice cake and glares at it before crunching down.
It's salty, and lightly spicy. More flavorful than what they usually get to eat. It burns the cuts on the inside of Till's mouth where he'd bitten himself yesterday trying to keep his mouth shut, but it's good. Till enjoys spicy food and can so rarely eat it due to never being able to pick what he eats. He can't help but hum appreciatively, grabbing a few more of them and breaking pieces off to stuff in his mouth.
There's more food there, small sandwiches and some other things he didn't recognize that Ivan had told him are called chips and kimbap, and Till really tries not to want any of it. He feels frankly offended at the display, which is by no means lavish, but is certainly more generous than anything else he generally gets to eat. A small appeasement for the human pets who are about to get shot and die on stage, a last meal intended to content them in their final moments. He is hungry, though. Really hungry. It's been days since his last full meal, not at all because Urak starves him, but because the form of self harm that Till has the most control over is how much he eats. Even his guardian, with all the power he has over Till, can't always force him to get something down, and certainly can't follow him everywhere afterwards to prevent him from purposely vomiting up whatever he'd had shoved down his throat against his will.
Till likes food, he does. And - well. He is about to die, and the rice cakes are good, and his resolve is rapidly crumbling.
He grabs a piece of kimbap with his bare hands and shoves it in his mouth. Something tangy and sweet that he's never tasted anything close to before explodes onto his tongue, so good and such a rare delicacy that he suddenly understands why the organizers here use the food to keep the contestants in line and why it works. It almost makes him want to stop rebelling, if only so he can have more. There's flavour filling his mouth, and Till never behaved well enough to have desserts or fancy snacks back at the Garden like some of the other kids. Occasionally, Ivan and Mizi had shared, but even that was rare. He hates it, but it's really tasty. It makes him wonder if a segyein actually made this, or if there are humans forced to work in the kitchens, cooking for pets and aliens alike. It wouldn't be a huge surprise to Till.
He feels eyes on him, and snaps around. Ivan stares at him, unashamed, watching closely as Till licks the salt off his lips and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"What?" he says, voice hoarse. "You wanted me to eat, and I'm eating."
"I know," Ivan replies. His eyes flit from Till's lips to his collar. Till casts his gaze upwards to the mirror, and sees the colour has gone from the previous dangerous flashing red to orange. Ivan hums. "You calmed down fast."
Just the smug, irritating implication is enough to make the light briefly turn red again, and Ivan laughs behind his hand.
"Shut the fuck up," Till mutters, through a mouthful of food. It's so stupidly good, and he hadn't realized just how hungry he was. In fact, he should slow down, or else he really is going to throw up. He takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to shovel more of the kimbap stuff in his mouth, and closes his eyes instead.
"Here," comes Ivan's voice. He's holding a bottle of water, and knocking it against Till's hand. "You should drink some of that too."
Till sighs, but takes it. He hates that he's doing what Ivan asks, but it'll probably be beneficial to him now. Till has spent so many years actively disobeying everything that he's ever been told to do out of pure spite that actually listening to something someone has to say automatically is an instinct he no longer really has.
He really has calmed down now. Whether it's the food and drink, or the fact that Ivan is being moderately nice, Till doesn't know. Either way, his breathing has evened out, and his collar is orange now. That's probably the best it's going to get. He can't imagine relaxing any further right now, not with what's about to happen.
"It's weird that you're trying to help me," Till mutters. He leans back on the couch cushions and spares Ivan a deadpan look. "I'm your opponent here. If you sing better than me, you win. You're basically at more of an advantage when I'm a mess."
Ivan looks moderately surprised at Till's words. "I know," he says, frowning. "But I wouldn't want to win like that."
Till pulls a face, stomach rolling. Both of them know fine well that Till isn't as good as Ivan is in that regard. Both of them know that Till isn't against a little cheating to get what he wants.
As if reading his mind, Ivan speaks up again. "What was that song you performed in round two called?"
Till blinks, not having expected the question. He spins the water bottle in his hands, thinking. "Dunno," he admits, after a moment. "I never thought to give it a name. It's not like anyone else was gonna ask, since I'm not allowed to do interviews."
Ivan nods, and mimics Till's movements in leaning back. Still, he doesn't look relaxed. He never does. Till almost wishes he was wearing a collar, just so it'd be simpler to tell whether he's faking his reactions or not, figure out what he's really feeling.
"I'd never heard you play it before," Ivan says.
This brings Till a sense of pride. He'd done his best to keep it secret, composing it late at night during his time at the Garden and practising it whenever he got a moment alone. The idea for it had come to him one day when he was forced to stay instead as a punishment for misbehaviour and watch the other kids play outside without him. Mizi had spotted him gazing longingly through the window and waved at him wildly, and then proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes doing cartwheels and dancing, entertaining him and keeping him company even from so far away. It had made his heart pound in his chest, the thought that someone cared enough about him to do that for him.
The melody that filled the empty me, it's you, alright -
He had started writing it that very evening. It hadn't really been his plan to perform it, especially not after Sua. But he'd happened to overhear Acorn's guardian telling him that that boy doesn't stand a chance, you're going to eat him alive, and a red rage had overcome him, and the only song he'd ever fully finished that no one else at the Garden knew the lyrics to was that one.
Till doesn't enjoy cheating. However, he can't say that he feels too horribly for Acorn. It was him or Till, and he'd never really liked that guy anyway.
"I wrote it myself," Till mumbles.
He pulls the bowl of chips closer to him and inspects them closely, trying to figure out what flavour they are before he puts them in his mouth. Or, more accurately, he's stalling having to look in Ivan's direction. The man's gone quiet, and it's incredibly unnerving. Even though Till doesn't regret what he did, he thinks Ivan telling him off for cheating will piss him off so much that he might snap at him again, and Till doesn't particularly want to leave Ivan with such a nasty last memory of him.
Then Ivan speaks up again. "Who was it for?"
Till feels his face flush like he's a little kid, and turns away so Ivan can't look at him. "Shut the fuck up, it wasn't for anybody!"
In his mind, Sua falls down dead, Mizi collapsing beside her. He wishes he could have played it for her under better circumstances. Wishes there were better circumstances, and not just this same endless cycle of suffering.
"Right," Ivan drawls, and Till's cheeks burn redder. "If you say so."
Oftentimes, the only way to get Ivan to leave him alone about something is to promptly change the subject, so that's what he does. "What did you and Marty end up playing?"
At this, Ivan looks somewhat surprised. His lips part, and it's a moment before sound comes out.
"You didn't hear?" he asks.
Till rolls his eyes. "No-pe. Fuckers knocked me out because I wasn't "behaving." I slept through the whole day, only woke up right at the end." He cringes. "Just in time to see you win."
Just in time to see Marty get shot. Till hadn't cared for him much either, and hadn't known very well, but it was still a shock to see him crumple. Not that Till had been worried Ivan wouldn't win. If someone as insignificant as Marty had won over Ivan, he might have thought there was some cheating going on.
Ivan's always had an incredible voice. Till used to hate him for the fact that he was treated better than all the other kids, but the way he sang even before they were trained was incredible. As an adult, Till isn't too shocked that Ivan was rewarded so well.
Plus, his owners were extremely rich and well known by the segyeins in the Garden. He definitely had that going for him, too.
Ivan is quiet, so Till glances over again while he's gulping down more water. The man looks lost in thought. It's incredibly rare to see him so thrown, since he almost never shows his emotions on his face and Till can count the amount of times he's seen him wear a collar on one hand. This time, though, he's not sure why.
"What's the problem?" he asks.
Ivan jolts. He offers Till a small, practised smile. "There isn't one. I apologize, I shouldn't have assumed."
"Assumed what?" Till asks, slightly annoyed. He hates Ivan's cryptic talk more than anything. Sometimes he wonders if he does it intentionally, to make everybody else feel stupider for not understanding something seemingly obvious.
"Nothing," Ivan confirms, shaking his head. He reaches out for another rice cake - he seems to really like them, because he's nearly emptied the whole bowl. Till wonders if he'd had them before. Till certainly hadn't. "I was just -"
A knock resounds on the door, and Till stiffens, immediately so tense he can see the reflection of his collar flicking to bright red. Ivan looks less surprised, but gets from his seat and turns to face the door, awaiting whoever is there.
A segyein guard peers in, dressed in a black uniform and grimacing with its metal mouth. "Ten minutes," it says, in a strangled growl. "Someone will be around to collect you in five."
"Thank you," Ivan replies politely.
The segyein offers no response, but Till sees it roll its eyes as it leaves and clicks the door shut behind it.
"Oh, shit," Till breathes, the terror coming back to him as reality hits once again. He's no longer a kid having a casual conversation with Ivan in the Garden while they wait around for their next class or eat their lunch together. This is something so much more serious. "Oh, fuck, oh, shit, oh, fuck -"
"Calm down," Ivan says, and he reaches out to take Till's wrist in hand. This time, he's extremely gentle, as if he knows that being pinned isn't going to help Till right now. "You're going to be fine."
"No I'm not, are you serious?" Till snaps. He wants to start pacing again, but he also wants to curl up into a ball and hide himself away so no one ever finds him. It's an old, childish urge, one he thought he'd outgrown. "Holy fucking shit, Ivan. We're so fucked."
A perfect summary of everything that's about to happen. Till dies today, Ivan almost certainly dies tomorrow.
It's not that he wants him to. He doesn't, really. Ivan has a beautiful singing voice. Unfortunately, Luka is older and more experienced, more ethereally beautiful, possibly even more well trained. He's won this competition before, and while the true reason he'd come back is a mystery to all of them, it couldn't be more obvious that someone is so confident in Luka's ability to win again that they'd risked his life a second time. He probably never had to take smiling lessons, too. Ivan doesn't stand a chance against a crowd favourite like that.
It aches, but it brings Till some kind of sick comfort, to know that they'll all be reunited in the afterlife soon. Him and Mizi and Sua and Ivan. He brings a hand to his throat and feels the breaths moving underneath his flesh.
Ivan leans back in his seat. He's still holding Till's wrist. It's odd, but Till doesn't even want him to let go.
A brief moment passes, time wasted, vanishing into the wind.
"Till," Ivan suddenly says, breaking the silence. "Do you ever wonder if the world is kinder to us in alternate universes?"
Till looks at him, startled. "That's an awfully sentimental thought."
"Ah, you're right," Ivan agrees, turning his gaze away with an amused twitch of his lip. "I should wait to bring such things up until we're finishing our final conversation together minutes before one of us dies."
Put like that, Till finds he can't say a word. Hearing this described as their final conversation together makes everything feel so serious that for a moment, he can't catch his breath.
"You've got a point," he murmurs after a moment, and follows Ivan in leaning back in his seat. "I'll humour you, then. Do you actually believe in alternate universes, or are you just kidding yourself to feel better about this one?"
Ivan shrugs, eyes closed. "It doesn't matter what I believe. Of course, I think it would be nice, if there were other worlds out there where everything is easier and people suffer less. I'm sure everybody would say the same. But my belief doesn't make them real."
Till thinks he shares the same sentiment. He's heard, from old books that he wasn't supposed to have, about God. Humans used to believe a God was watching over them, guiding them, waiting to guide them into a place called Heaven. They believed He was almighty, and that their entire lives were of His design, no matter what they would have to endure to find themselves back in His arms again after death.
It's all bullshit. There's a reason no one believes in God anymore, and it's not just because of the fact that the segyeins don't allow humans to read too far into history and that all religion was stamped out a hundred years ago. What kind of all powerful entity would sit back and watch its children suffer so horribly without intervention, and what kind of entity that did such things deserved to be worshipped?
There is no God. At least, not in the form of an incorporeal being in the sky or whatever the fuck. It would be nothing but agonizing to try and force himself to believe that such an entity could have saved him every single second he's been hurting over his twenty one years of life, but chose not to, all so he could go to wherever Heaven is.
For the same reason, he doesn't believe there are alternate universes. How would it be fair, if there was a version of him in the universe who got to be happy, who got to grow old and live a fruitful life, when he didn't?
Ivan had once told him that the life expectancy of a human used to be around seventy three years old. Their skin would get all wrinkled and their hair turned grey. I guess your hair would just stay the same. Till had punched him for that. Now just as much as then, imagining a world where humans grew older than even thirty five years old is such a foreign concept that it's impossible to imagine.
It's unfair, the possibility that Till could have grown old in another universe. It's so unfair it makes him angry. There's no comfort to be wrought from the idea that he could have lived a life that he didn't spend half of it wanting to end, but didn't, because he was born into the wrong universe.
Till watches Ivan for a moment until he opens his eyes, and quickly looks away before they make eye contact.
"What do you believe in, then?" he asks quietly.
A pause.
"Almost nothing," Ivan replies lightly. There's a bitterness in his tone that Till can't quite decipher the meaning behind.
Till blinks. "So you do believe in something, then?"
Ivan lets out a soft laugh. "I suppose you could say that."
"Well," Till says, eyebrows furrowed in slight irritation at how long it's taking Ivan to just spit it out, already, when they have so little time left. "What is it?"
Ivan's lips part, as if he's about to say something. Till finds himself holding his breath.
Then the door behind then flies open, and the spell is broken.
"Alright, quickly, get over here," they're instructed. It's not the same segyein guard as earlier, but several different ones, all dressed in the same black venue uniform. They're holding various bottles and brushes, poised at the ready. "You, head over there, and you, come to me."
Till shoots Ivan a panicked look, as if he could possibly stop this. He can't, of course. No one's coming to save them now.
Ivan nods gravely in the segyeins direction, and then spares Till another quick look. For the briefest moment, as he pulls his hand away from Till's wrist, he grips his hand and holds him tight.
Then he's on his feet, doing as he's told like always.
Till takes a moment longer, red hot anger and waves of terror pinning him down, so he has to be forced to his feet and dragged across the room to the mirror. He squirms as he's manhandled, last minute touch-ups being done to his makeup and hair and something minty and gross being sprayed into his mouth as if the crowd could possibly smell the spice on his breath from so far away.
It only takes a moment for all this to occur, and then he and Ivan are being guided out of the room, into a black hallway lined with dim lights. He can hear segyeins calling to each other in their own language, so Till barely understands a word, never having cared to learn it. Ivan must be able to. When Till looks at him, he doesn't give anything away.
They're brought to the platforms that will lift them onto the stage, and made to stand on either one, with Till on the right and Ivan on his left. His throat feels light as his collar is removed. He expects a mic to be fit around his head, but no one comes to give him one. There must be microphones on stage. He breathes deeply, clenching his fists, trying not to let his terror show on his face.
Beside him, he faintly hears the sound of Ivan's guardian. "Where are your gloves?" he's asking, confused. "You had those put on, right?"
Ivan lets out a soft ahh sound. "My apologies, I must have left them in the rehearsal room."
Till is startled out of listening to the sound of Ivan being scolded when someone comes up beside him and grips his shoulders.
Urak. He's dressed in black, the same as Till. No emotion can ever be read on his long, dark face, but now more than ever, he looks extremely serious. Thin red eyes narrow even further as they glide down Till's body and back up to his face, and Till wonders what he's thinking, whether he'll be glad to see the back of him when he's gone or if even a small part of him will be saddened by the loss.
"Gonna miss me?" he asks, in a taunting tone that comes out sounding more pathetically weak than he'd intended it.
Urak doesn't say anything for a moment.
Then he runs his hands down Till's arms, taking his hands in his own for just a moment. Unlike Ivan, his grip is tight in a painful way rather than comforting, and it would probably bruise Till's knuckles if they weren't already in a terrible state to start with.
"Do your best," is all his guardian has to say to him. "For the both of us."
Then he's gone, leaving Till alone. Probably off to go find his seat to watch the performance.
He doesn't even give Till the chance to say anything. If he hadn't been so stunned, he probably would have hurled a few insults after him, probably would have promised not to even try, probably would have told him that he hopes he dies soon too. There's no time, though. The second Urak is gone, another segyein is approaching him, giving him instructions on what to do once on stage and letting him know when his mic will be on. It's nonsense. Till's not listening.
Part of him is so spiteful that he wants to go back on his word to Ivan and not sing at all, just because Urak had also asked him to try. However - however.
There isn't really a reason. He just wants to make good on his promise.
He just wants to sing with Ivan again. He'd always enjoyed getting to do that when they were kids.
Across the room, Ivan is now also standing alone, positioned in the centre of the circular platform. Till has been told that they're going to raise them upwards onto the platform when the song is about to start, same as the other performances, but the stage will be decorated differently, so he'll have to get his bearings. As if Till could possibly care. That stage is going to be his grave.
The segyein beside Till exits, and for a moment, it's just the two of them. A countdown on the screens in front of them signals that they have thirty seconds before the show begins. Till is going to be raised onto the stage first, with Ivan following. That means they're out of time.
He looks at Ivan, and finds he's already looking at him. Ivan is stunning in the outfit his guardian chose for him, even without the gloves he'd discarded. Silently, Till wonders if Ivan leaving them behind was his one small act of rebellion. That he hadn't wanted to wear them, and had thus chosen not to. If it had been Till, they would have been forced back on him. Despite this, he can't but feel the same sense of secret joy that he always got as kids when Ivan got into a rare bit of trouble for something, usually something Till had gotten him involved in.
The two men stare at each other, mint eyes meeting red.
Then, finally, Ivan smiles.
A real smile - Till can instantly tell. It's visible in his eyes, too, in the way they thin and sparkle. It makes Till's heart speed up in his chest for reasons he can't understand.
"Ivan?" he blurts, without thinking.
Immediately, Ivan tilts his head, still smiling, but more confusedly this time. "Mhm?"
What did Till want to say to him, in that moment? Good luck out there. I'm sorry I always started fights with you when we were kids. I'm glad it's you who's at my side right now. I wish I'd gotten the chance to know you better. I hope there really are other universes out there that are kinder to us.
All of that would be far too overwhelming to just throw at him ten seconds before they go on stage, and there's no time to say all the words he really wants to say, anyway.
So instead, he taps the corner of his lip.
"Piece of rice," he says, "right there."
Ivan blinks and flicks the corner Till had gestured to with the pad of his finger before glancing down at it with a confused expression. Obviously, there's nothing. The segyeins wouldn't have dared to allow him to go on stage in a state, after all.
Despite everything, Till laughs, right as the clock hits zero.
"Made you look," he says.
Then the platform beneath him begins to rise.
Till manages to tear his gaze away from Ivan. It won't help him to just keep staring at him like some kind of weirdo. He has to concentrate now, and sing like he promised. With Mizi gone, there's only one person left in the world who Till gives a fuck about at all, and only one person worth singing for.
As he rises out of Ivan's view, he hears the start of the song kicking up. Weirdly, he thinks he can hear his own heartbeat, too. It pounds in time with the notes - ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.
Till places a palm over his chest, for just a moment. Still alive, for the next five minutes or so.
He's never believed in the afterlife before. Now, he hopes there is one. He hopes he goes somewhere good after he dies.
He's plummeted into darkness as the platform takes him through the stage, and right before the lights overhead blind him and the first notes of the song begin to swell, he thinks - take me anywhere but here.