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There are only four people who bother searching for Ivan in the middle of the night. Mizi, for one, when she has a nightmare and wants whatever sense of steadiness she finds in Ivan to chase out the bad dreams. His handler, for another. On the rare occasion, Sua will slip into his room for a chance to gather herself before she puts on a brave front for Mizi again.
Then there's the fourth person.
"Till," Ivan says, swinging the door open on the second knock.
Till shuffles, awkward in a way that's unusual between the two of them. His feet are bare and scraped bloody. Puffy eyes. There are scratches around his neck. A few ideas of the kind of punishment that he must've undergone flit through Ivan's head, but he doesn't dwell on them. No point in lingering over what's already happened. If Till's here, he really only wants one thing.
Ivan raises his hand to Till's neck, making his movements as slow and predictable as possible. "Stay still," he murmurs.
Till's voice is hoarse when he speaks. "Were you sleeping?"
"Not deeply."
"You never do," Till says. He's in a chatty—well, chattier mood than normal.
Ivan plucks at the locks on the collar. They haven't changed the design since the last time he cracked it, but he takes his time anyway, risking the brush of his thumb against Till's nape. He's rewarded with a tiny bit of tension leaving Till's shoulders. Alright. A familiar touch, some light conversation. Ivan can do that.
Would it be better for Ivan to delay unlocking the collar, or to unlock it as fast as possible and send him off to Mizi's room?
Till's eyes are trained at Ivan's feet. "You grew again," he says.
"Hm? Oh." Ivan's pajama pants are short at the hem, riding somewhere mid-shin. His handler hasn't gotten him a new set yet. "Yeah."
"Must be nice."
Ivan tries to pin down the emotion in his voice. Annoyance at how fast Ivan's growing. Envy? Anger that he plays the role of an obedient puppet so well, leaving Till to suffer all the punishment?
"Stop overthinking," Till mutters, rubbing his cheek against the back of Ivan's wrist like a cat. Ivan's heart leaps up to his throat. His fingers, thankfully, are unaffected by Till's words, and the locks undo themselves one by one. "I didn't mean anything by it."
"Oh," Ivan says.
"You're so weird when you're tired, you know that?"
"I could say the same about you."
"I'm normal."
"The normal you wouldn't look for me like this," Ivan says. Click, goes the last lock. He steps back and offers Till the collar. "Here. Put it back on before the morning call."
"I know."
Till doesn't say thanks. He never does. But he does linger at Ivan's door, staring at the collar in Ivan's hand. He looks tired. The stress of the final round of auditions must be getting to him. Ivan's seen the crumpled up music sheets in his room. It's an unnecessary concern. Till, out of everyone in their class, has the best chance at making it out alive.
"Why are you smiling?"
Ivan considers the question, then opts for the truth. "I was thinking about you."
"Ew," Till says, automatically.
Ivan can't help laughing at that. He looks so offended, like being in Ivan's thoughts is the worst thing to ever happen to him. Little does he know.
Till snatches his collar and shoots an irritated glare at Ivan. "One day, I'm going to figure out how to unlock this collar. I'm never coming to you again."
"You keep saying that," Ivan says.
"Well, this time I mean it."
"Sure," Ivan says. There are only a few more months until the next season of Alien Stage begins. Maybe he should learn. It'd be good for the future. "Do you want me to teach you?"
Till's eyes narrow. "What do you want for it?"
"You're so..." There was a word in one of their textbooks. A human term. "Capitalistic," Ivan says. "Do I have to want something? Consider it a favor between friends. Here. Give me your collar."
Ivan walks him through it. Probably not the best idea, considering there's surveillance in the hallway, but the camera on Ivan's door has been dismantled for the longest time, and he doubts his handler would've fixed it, after years of good behavior.
Undoing the locks is more muscle memory than anything. He tries to slow down the process for Till. The edge of your nail on the pin, like this. A flick of your fingers clockwise. Grab the pin and wiggle it out. Then you're free.
"You always make it look so easy," Till mutters. His eyes are such a brilliant green in the low light. "How'd you learn this stuff, anyway?"
"I learned a lot about locks," Ivan says.
"What, like your fire thing?"
He's referencing Ivan's life, before Anakt Garden. Ivan smiles. Till makes it sound so endearing. Fire thing. "Yes," Ivan says.
"I don't know why you stay."
Changing subjects again—his punishment today must've been bad. "The same reason you do," Ivan says.
"Mizi doesn't like you," Till says. Territorial, blind idiot.
"Who said anything about Mizi?"
"Cryptic jerk," Till mutters. "Say one thing that makes sense, I dare you."
"It isn't my fault that you're too close-minded to understand other people's perspectives," Ivan says.
"Quit it with the pretentious talk. Why do you stay? You think you're going to win?"
"Are you curious?"
"Wouldn't you be?" Till says, flushing at his ears. "You know how to do all this stuff. And you just—listen to them, like you can't. Like you're helpless. Even though—you know. That time before. At the fence."
Ivan blinks. It's the first time Till's mentioned it since it happened. Their escape attempt, that is. "It was a stupid idea," he says, after he recovers from the sense of vertigo. "We would've been shot before we made it out of the city."
"It wasn't stupid. We could've made it."
"It's kind of you to believe that," Ivan says. "Either one of us would have made it or neither of us would have."
"You, then," Till says. Ivan amends his opinion: territorial, stubborn, blind idiot. Till's hackles rise. "Don't look at me like that. You know I'm right."
Ivan living when Till is dead? Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
"I was born to be a kept pet," Ivan says. "In reference to your question. Before I came here, I was malnourished, practically feral, and about four days away from freezing to death. Now look at me. I have enough leisure time to read books and sing songs. They don't need to collar something that won’t bother escaping. I've experienced enough of the world outside to know I wouldn't survive, so really, there's no point. Of course I would stay. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"
Till hasn't hit him since they were kids, but he looks like he wants to now. He's an angry crier. At least that hasn't changed.
"Don't take shit out on me just because you're mad," Till says.
"I'm not mad," Ivan says.
"Right, like you're being an asshole for no reason," Till says.
"You always think I'm an asshole," Ivan says.
"Since when have you cared about what I think?" Till says, then curses, wiping furiously at his face. "Stop looking like that."
"I don't understand," Ivan says. Helplessness, that's what he's feeling. "How am I looking at you?"
"You're so annoying," Till snaps, before he snatches his collar back and stomps off. He makes it about three strides and stops. Their rooms are right beside each other. Not much space to travel. Till's hand is on his doorknob. Something their handlers installed when they discovered it in a human textbook about ancient architecture. A novelty, they called it. "About the collar."
Ivan waits. Till doesn't continue.
"Were you about to thank me?" he asks.
"No," Till says. "Just... I just wanted to say you're wrong. You wouldn't have learned how to unlock it if you didn't want to be free. That's what I think."
"You said I don't care about what you think," is all Ivan can say, because his mouth has gone horribly dry.
"Yeah, well," Till says. His catchphrase when he doesn't know what else to say.
In this regard, they're equal. Ivan stares at his back, his hunched shoulders. There's a purpling bruise peeking out under the collar of his loose shirt. Till also needs a replacement for his clothes. They're always ill-fitting.
"The last audition's tomorrow," Till says.
Another subject change, Ivan thinks. "It is."
"You better make it."
"Or else?"
"So annoying," Till mutters and slips into his bedroom, easing the door behind him without a sound. Last amendment: stubborn, territorial, considerate, blind idiot.
Ivan's smiling when he falls asleep, dreaming of undoing the locks on Till's collar again and again. Click, click, click. As many times as Till asks.