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Charcoal is Till’s favorite medium.
There are not many things that he has been allowed to try– If it weren’t for the handlers at the daycare emphasizing the importance of extracurriculars and intellectual nourishment, he doesn’t think Urak would’ve even bothered with the cheapest of sketchbooks and pencils. As far as he’s concerned, Till was made to sing and little else more; it seems an inconvenience that he even has to be kept alive to do it.
Graphite is accessible. Good. But lacking. When Till’s hand slips, which it often does, his stroke against the page is harsher than he means for it to be. In mitigation, his hand presses to the paper, rubbing at the line with the pad of his thumb just gently enough to soften it, and if that doesn’t work, he has to adjust the entire drawing. Wax is not particularly his style, but its colors are lively and appealing. Watercolor—Till had liked watercolor, though the only reason he’d ever gotten to try had been Ivan’s strange craftiness, which seemed to help his hands reinvent whatever they touched. Popsicles. Bruises. Fire. Watercolors.
He would tug out strands of grass, pluck the leaves and the petals of flowers. Then, he would soak them in a bowl he'd stolen from the cafeteria and filled from the river, carefully wringing them out until they would go pale, leaving behind tinted water. Till would watch with equal measures of interest and skepticism as Ivan’s eyes crinkle into thin bright lines. In those rare moments, he would smile in a way that Till associated so closely with their childhood, when Ivan’s jaw had not been so tightly clenched that Till could almost feel the pain of it in his own molars, but instead, Ivan’s mouth would open just enough for his tongue to poke out between his teeth and press right against the point of his crooked canine.
Till wonders if Ivan knows that he does that. Till had made a note of it to bring it up when he got the chance, to have something snarky to say about Ivan back during their arguments, but he’d never found a good opportunity to use it until it had already become too late and the most that Till could think whenever Ivan turned to face him with twitching lines underneath an even stare was I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know where else to go.
Charcoal is interesting because it is supplied to them, in small doses, yes, but it is made readily available to the children of ANAKT. In the Garden, as the sky of their confinement stretched on each of their sides, it would reach an abrupt end, met with a white sheet the size of an entire wall where they were allowed to draw. It was always filled with small obscure doodles, stickman figures, flowers, names, their mark on the small world they were given, something they could be assured would outlive them, even if not by much.
Till had taken to filling it with a mural, finger grey with the smudges of charcoal. On it, he easily softened the planes of uneven land, hardened the edges of tall mountains, and captured the joy on the small faces of children who live in a world constructed only through the careful descriptions of Ivan’s stories about the Old Earth—an unfounded memory, a place where they did not know words like freedom because they simply knew nothing else besides it; Till had become intimately familiar with retreating to it in moments like these.
Distant ringing echoes in his ears—the chiming bells of morning prayers. The bright cloudy sky flatlines into blinding white nausea. Blinking groggily, Till tilts his head away to be met with a dark reflective surface. In it, he can see his tired eyes dull against the bright lights framing them, red like the vines circling his irises, purple like the pain he can feel against his ribs.
He tugs his heavy head back up and squints through the glare. His feet pull him away before he even knows he’s standing, wobbling away on his unsteady feet. He bumps into a large mass which turns, and for a terrifying moment, Till freezes, only to have a clawed hand pet his head. He flinches away with a growl and turns towards a different direction. As he takes another step, he is tugged backwards so harshly he chokes on his own yelp. He gets up only for it to happen again. He finally allows for the room around him to come into focus and for himself to feel the icy clench of his fisted fingers.
Thick, suffocating leather wraps around his neck, keeping him in place. A heavy chain rattles behind Till’s head as he tugs on the collar around his neck, his open palms repeatedly scraping at the spikes sticking out of it. At least, he thinks begrudgingly, there is no muzzle this time.
Since graduation, it has just been from one showroom to the next– They’re not always called that. Sometimes, they’re parties, dinners, meetings, but they all serve the same purpose: an opportunity to exhibit Urak’s best asset up close and personal nearing its stage debut, a good opportunity to win over investors and an even better one to show off to competition. It’s not too hard to guess which he’s going for this time.
Mercury. Alcohol. Buffets of delicacies. The room is vast, endless; Till does not see the walls of it, only the blinking lights hung on them. It is brimming with guests, Segyien of various races, most with a leash in hand. Amongst the few pet humans allowed to roam freely, Till spots a familiar figure a few feet away, performing a card trick for a captivated circle of Sygien. They clap when he’s done. Till swallows heavily and forces his gaze away.
His hands twitch by his side. It’s not as though he would like to have to perform here; Till doesn’t take well to a proximate audience, and certainly not a handsy one, but the pads of his fingers have softened and his nails have grown, and his hands ache to remember the hold of guitar neck or the grip of a pencil. His eyes drift off before pulling back away again.
Entertainment has become sparse with his schedule spread thin between one networking event and the next. He finds himself confined to the tight space of his own mind. His languid body does not help ease his restlessness. Till tenses beneath his crumpled suit.
The next time he looks, it’s to find the figure hovering over him. He lets out a shaky breath, unable to speak, partially due to the weight of his tongue in his mouth, and partially due to the inability to gather the right set of insults to address this figure.
Bastard, he settles for, when Ivan grins down at him, hands expertly shuffling a deck of cards.
His eyes don’t linger on Till, sliding left and right often. There is a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead which TIll registers as an unfamiliar sight. His posture is craned awkwardly, Till realizes. This is quickly discarded when Ivan sits and raises a set of card to Till. Till raises a brow in response.
It takes him a long moment to be able to reach his hand out. In this time, Ivan’s own hand reaches back, lingering against his forehead before tugging on the strands of Till’s hair. Till frowns at the pain, at himself for leaning into the press of skin. He turns his card around, squinting to make out the shapes on it. He flinches belatedly when his collar is tugged on, to which Ivan quickly pulls away, brushing against a sore bump. Till finally gathers the energy to respond, knocking his knee harshly enough against Ivan’s to feel it echo through his own body with a strong shiver.
He scratches at it as Ivan watches him with furrowed brows. How lucky. Ivan’s collar is no thicker than the width of a string. It’s laughable really, the kind of bold flaunt that would have Urak seething: obedience so effortless it became an aesthetic, unachievable in any of the pets Till was raised with, let alone himself. As he eyes the irritated redness forming on Ivan’s neck around it, Till cannot find it in himself to consider it a victory.
Ivan opens his mouth, not for the first time. Till doesn’t hear what he says, not for the first time. Maybe the music is too loud, not that Till can hear that either, now that he thinks about it. He lets air escape him in one thin slow exhale. His neck aches.
Does it hurt, he would like to imagine Ivan asking when he speaks next. Till would like to roll his eyes and scoff and say, Has it ever not? What’s new? His eyes trace the curve of Ivan’s back which straightens and bends repeatedly. His hand rubs at it incessantly. There is a minute wince on his face that Till barely catches before it’s forced into the corners of a tight smile. What about you? Till wants to say back. Does it hurt?
He scratches at the bump harder, until he feels the fresh stinging relief of an open wound. His other hand toys with his card as Ivan reshuffles the deck and allows him to put back in. He makes a show of it as he does everything else, carefully scanning the deck of cards, feigning confusion with a stupid face. Till’s mouth slants upwards at the thought of committing it to paper, one expression among many which Till would like to maintain longer than the few seconds they linger. He thinks this again when Ivan pulls out a three of clubs and smiles, the tip of his tongue pressed against his tooth.
He does not wait for Till to give it back before moving away. Sweat trickles down Till’s nape. There are so many blinking lights above them. Ivan’s figure does not look back, walking with a limp. Till reaches his fingers out to it briefly before folding them in.