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It had been his first time in this particular machine. He’d never experienced it during his training. It was reserved for one singular person before him, but by the time Till was conscious enough to remember, Luka had long since gotten over the fear of it. The strain on him wasn’t visible the same any more. Neither Till, nor any of the other children really noticed when or if it affected him at all once he was conditioned as intended.
He was always too far ahead of Till, an untouchably prodigious senior. Their classes were distantly separated and Till hadn’t really ever had to think of Luka or his segyein’s practices before he’d gone and won an entire season. Then its concepts were all the rage, praised for its unequivocally successful creation.
Even then, Urak hadn’t readily adopted any of Heperu’s practices, not until now anyway. His own pride for his personal pet development plan got in the way.
Till had heard the gossip. The segyien’s were not particularly tactful when they’d buy his time. Many of them said they enjoyed his lack of self control, his instability, but he’d been compared to Luka a handful of times, while needy claws pet at his head and lingered painfully on his skin.
“They both have light hair, I guess.”
“He doesn't act like him, so it’s hard to pretend, but he’s so much cheaper.”
An infuriating embarrassment had welled in his chest with the words, garbled near incomprehensibly in the segyeins’ tongue, never spoken to him, only about him.
Till admittedly had never paid any mind to notice Luka. He’d never had to until they were slated to be in the same season, and even then, being in the finale wasn’t an expectation worth indulging. There was only one moment, when everyone in the garden was aware of Luka before his first win.
Someone had died in Anakt Garden. It was wholly unheard of. They were meant to be safe and cared for. That was the idea of the Great Anakt to begin with, a false promise of overbearing security in exchange for wholehearted, devoted belief .
As Till had laid on the stage, Mizi’s hands on his cheeks, he wasn’t thinking of Luka, but he swore… something had happened that made him aware of the man’s viciousness, how he could’ve possibly been involved with that child’s death. His smile—laughter—
He just couldn’t place what it had been anymore.
It was too hard to focus, he couldn’t catch his breath, his heart rate slowed and stuttered. The oxygen clicked off. Just the same as it must have… for that other person.
When he was awake again, the mask on his face was a heavy, daunting reminder of his circumstances. He’d cried all his tears in the first few days already.
He wasn’t aware why he was even alive, or what had happened… or where Mizi was. If they hadn’t killed her in the moment, then she was likely somewhere, maybe in an even more impossible contraption, in even greater pain. He ached at the thought and it inevitably became harder to breathe again to punish his panic.
He panted, doing his best to focus. He needed… needed something. He needed sanctuary. He couldn’t understand how Luka had endured this so young. He knew it had caused him issues, everyone knew, he wore the scars proudly, but still, Till hadn’t experienced this before, and the patch up job, whatever wounds they’d carted him off the stage with that got healed so they could put him into this thing , his body was surely recovering from those injuries still.
Was this truly Urak’s idea? He was the one perfectly content, eager really, for Till to be on the stage. He’d wanted him to win , but wasn’t the death of a pet basically part of the deal? It was a gamble with abysmal odds. He was always meant to be put down.
And Urak… Till was not valuable enough to him to warrant more investment. He was certain of that.
When Till’s time in the machine was up, it was the same as always. He’d drop to the floor unceremoniously as they removed his bindings and oxygen mask. He’d be picked up and moved to a gurney and wheeled through twisting hallways into his bedroom. Those familiar four walls he’d slept in his whole childhood, before he properly debuted and had a public schedule, all those years before his class had graduated.
The other rooms were vacant, every single one.
He was largely too exhausted and out of it to register the segyeins who cared for him. They wouldn’t answer any questions even if he could speak. They would look him over, sponge away the panicked sweat that had dried upon his skin, and replace the bag attached to his IV. Then they’d leave.
He knew the isolation was part of the torture. He was being punished for being a loser. He was probably being punished because of Mizi, too. He wondered if Luka came out unscathed as the winner, or if simply being a human at the time of an attempted human-rebellion was so innately untrustworthy that they’d even turn on him . Till doubted it.
He tried to imagine Mizi, her hair as it was before he saw her last, when it was long enough to be braided all the way down her back. Those memories that felt too difficult to imagine now. He wanted to soothe himself to sleep, but they didn’t soothe anymore . He tried and tried, it was an ingrained practice he couldn’t shake, but he felt nothing, no comfort at the idea of her.
He could almost feel the bark against his fingertips, as he hid behind one of the trees in the garden, staring at her conspicuous head, so recognizable among the crowd of other children.
There was only cold dread entwined with his memories of her. That image he’d used for so long, the shining beacon amidst the unruly storm, had been irreparably shattered, far too human now. Her tears hitting his face were far too fresh and real, he could still feel them, warm on his skin.
He floundered helplessly, the stress on his aching heart was keeping him awake.
In what way was this a better death? What did they even gain keeping him alive for this? He was supposed to have died simply—a gunshot. That was what he’d been promised. He should have known. The Great Anakt didn’t know concepts of mercy.
It was a shock when he’d not been wheeled away back to the machine the next day.
He awoke in his own time, eyes crusted shut, and his arm, adorned with sticky, too-tight gauze wrapped around his elbow where the needle wasn’t allowed to be removed, flung itself up to clear away the dried tears. He winced at the light seeping into the room, bright and painful.
It took him a long time, probably hours, to work his way to sitting, and even longer to attempt to stand.
Anakt Garden used to have a day and night cycle, he looked out his window to the courtyard, and it was identical to when he’d first woke up, the shadows hadn’t moved or changed. They’d stilled time for him, it seemed, an eternal daylight.
No one stopped him when he opened the door to his room, wheeling his IV fluids just behind him. The gown he wore was wrinkled from his tumultuous rest.
He was overly familiar with the route to go outside. He thought there was almost no point in walking it.
As he passed by some of the rooms on the way, it felt like his head might burst. He paused in his tracks and held it in his hands, pressing into his skull, his temples, painfully, and he didn’t understand, because nothing had registered when he’d been rolled up and down this hall before, and this wasn’t Mizi’s room, and no one else was important enough—
He practically fell into the wall, and clung to it as he hobbled down the hall, waiting for the throbbing to ease some.
It was abundantly clear, once he made his way to the exit, free of the other, undeniably tainted dorm rooms, he really was entirely alone in the garden.
He could see the green expanse fully. It had felt cramped and small at times, when he was forced outside to play and socialize. The segyein caretakers were always so frustrated with him when he never made any friends. They couldn’t comprehend humans not getting along perfectly—they were the same species after all. This particular shortcoming was always Till’s own fault, of course. He’d be scolded for spending his time drawing and composing instead of exercising. Always alone.
He’d had pages and pages of drawings of… Mizi . Yes, Mizi.
Now, the yard was too silent, eerie and uncomfortable.
He walked closer to a tree he’d often sit under as a child. He had to carry his IV even if he felt too weak, the wheels couldn’t roll over the grass, but he finally felt some relief in the ground beneath his bare feet, his weight sinking into the dirt. It was freshly damp, like it had been watered recently. He was winded by the time he planted his body beneath its shade, uncaring of stains he’d get on his medical gown.
Why was this space not being used?
Anakt Garden was prestigious. There was a long list of human pets waitlisted to get in, their segyein owners willing to spend in abundance. Each class had its space to occupy. There was no reason for the fiftieth class to not make way for the fifty-first. It was unheard of.
Was the space not real? The garden had never been real —but was this truly an illusion?
He looked to the ground, beneath the white fabric he wore there were the telltale red flowers, crushed under his person and bleeding a floral scent into the air.
He wasn’t sure what had compelled him, maybe it had just been that long since he’d really eaten, chewed. He pulled fresh, unbroken flowers from their stems and shoved them between his lips. He’d never done this before. They crunched and cracked bitterly. The petals themselves were soft and cold—wet—on his tongue, but the tech inside was made of delicate, unbearable metal.
He’d long already known that they weren’t real, he definitely did. That was a truth of this garden. When had he found out?
There was no escaping monitoring, he was far past that sort of delusional hope. Still, he shoved all the other flowers in the vicinity into his mouth, hoping to make even the smallest dent in his surroundings.
They were too small to choke on, and they were not edible components, but he doubted he’d die from them either. There was no way it would be so simple, items lodging themselves in his innards, getting stuck and killing him would be too kind for his circumstances. They wouldn’t let it happen.
He laid down and as the time passed and the stars still never greeted him, he found he couldn’t ease into sleep even if he wanted to.
He chose to sing, against his better judgement.
It felt dangerous somehow, to do it for himself. He was laying out in the open, drowsy. There was always the threat of punishment if he’d not kept quiet at night in Anakt, but he had the distinct feeling it was something else that caused the unease.
He closed his eyes and imagined all the times he’d practiced the songs for Alien Stage. He’d written his first, independent from his first opponent. He wanted to go out with a bang at the time. He both hoped they would kill him quickly after the stunt, and prayed for what had become the reality—it would be spectacle enough for him to live .
And the second… he knew they’d written something together. The melody was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it.
They’d all been given the song for the finale in advance. It was somewhat impersonal, besides his own changes and additions, it wasn’t like…
They didn’t practice it beforehand. That was not the norm for the show.
It was hard to even fathom he’d made it so far. He had no idea how they’d not just shot him when he’d killed one of their own. He’d had something to live for and then Mizi was missing and he just… didn’t anymore.
What was there to live for now? It felt so much worse now. Even knowing Mizi was alive, he couldn’t find any value in it. He somehow wished she really were dead, like he’d feared in those months he didn’t know what had become of her. Only sometimes.
He’d written countless songs in his youth, and he sang whatever he could remember from then, not wanting to think about anything recent, hoping to lull himself into unknown peace.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d lost.
He was left alone for too long, and he hadn’t eaten real food since he’d been awake enough to desire it. Somehow, they’d begun caring for him when he rested, so he wouldn’t see another living being at all while he was awake.
He imagined they must not know what to do with him, if they just wanted to break him or make him go crazy.
The lights never turned off.
He found clothes, piles of them, all the ones that were too fucking small, small, small, intended for younger bodies. He’d make a mess, pile them up on his bed, create a space inside he could pretend was dark enough.
He talked aloud to himself, losing track of time.
He wrote songs.
Everything was here. The instruments he’d learned as a child, the charcoal he’d drawn on the walls with. It was almost simple, to make enough sound it filled the empty space, to draw on the blank walls until they were unrecognizable.
No one came to tell him not to.
He laughed at the idea of Urak receiving a bill one day. All the repairs and replacements, every single camera Till would readily crush. He hoped it meant something, anything.
The door out was locked. He’d given up on that form of escape immediately. It didn’t matter if they’d open it to come make sure he stayed alive. He’d never get that chance, he knew that. Even if he ripped out his IV, he’d wake up later with it right back in place. He couldn’t stay awake to catch them out. They were happy to wait until exhaustion took him.
The first reprieve from the monotony came as he was painting, using a wall bordering one of the rooms he’d been avoiding for too long as his canvas. It was one of the last available spaces he had left that was still untouched, no pigment thrown across the surface—or punches.
He always felt sick when he was nearby, but he needed to feel something . At least it would be different. He figured, even if he passed out from it, there wasn’t a world in which it mattered.
He had come easily, when Till had begun drawing Mizi, her gaze warm and her glasses childishly round. Odd feelings began swarming his stomach the longer he worked. Sua was just beside her, as always. He had to ask himself what color her eyes had been. Then, he drew a face he didn’t know. His smile was unreal. His tooth cut into his lip when he grinned.
And Till just didn’t stop drawing him.
He found a sketchpad and pencil and conceptualized the character.
The thought of the segyein’s when they’d written those nursery rhymes about the Great Anakt. Did they feel so inspired?
He didn’t have a name, but he imagined his personality. Till could almost hear his blunt teasing, feel the weight of his head on his shoulder, overlooking Till’s hands as he drew—he could cringe with the sting of familiar fingers pulling painfully at his hair.
He looked at himself, drawn on the page alongside him , and Till's hand shook as he finished the last stroke.
The boy… above all else, was defined by his care . His adoration. His unwavering presence in Till’s world. His—
He threw the papers across the room.
Was this some belated jealousy manifesting itself? Mizi and Sua had had each other. And Till had… no one. He’d never had anyone. He dreamt of teary warm, loving eyes that looked so similar to his own, but that was all. Besides an idea, what did he have?
His walls were painted over, for the first time since he’d started working. Everything was reset, each surface clear, each broken thing patched and replaced, and the sketches, all the drawings—were just gone.
They put him back in the machine. It was a relief to see the slit pupils of the segyein at first, the rest of its face obscured by its medical wear, and then the relief was snuffed right out once his bindings didn’t budge—he was reminded they would never budge—and they pulled the green oxygen mask back over his head and into place.
He couldn’t recall when it ended. He just woke up alone again.
He didn’t know what compelled him, but he found himself sitting in that room that made him so uneasy he’d become physically sick, and he reached his hands out, felt the sheets of the bed. He laid down, rubbing his face into its pillows. He eased for perhaps the first time ever.
He looked at the artificial sky through the window. He missed the stars.
He pulled out his IV again and watched his blood run down his arm unhindered by bandaging. It stained.
He wondered when it had begun to be easier to focus on the feeling of being sick than alone.
His hand traced his neck idly while he laid there, curled up on this foreign bed, wishing its pillows had a scent, and he was hit with something distinct like longing.
He was familiar with it, he’d felt it all his life. Mizi was always out of reach, but he’d realized in that moment, he’d not felt it this whole time he’d been imprisoned in here. He just felt… nothing. She made him feel nothing.
But somehow he longed . It was stark, overwhelming. He cried for hours and he didn’t even know who—what for. Something was wrong—it was all fucking wrong all the time—but something was really, truly wrong.
He missed being loved.
He didn’t remember ever being loved but he knew it had happened, that certainty got him through being sold as a child, fueled so much of his earliest work, and then…
Till reached up to tug at his collar. He didn’t even really notice it anymore. The time when it was something he consciously thought about with every spoken word, every swallow, was too far back for him to remember.
Something about it around his neck at the moment made his gut churn. He couldn’t take it off. It was the unshaking reality that it would always be there, its unbearable weight at the base of his throat.
But then his ears gently rang with the soft clicking of it being released. It had been removed so infrequently he thought he forgot what it sounded like for it to be unlatched. He hadn’t done that himself. Did it malfunction?
He held his breath for a few moments, stilling his entire body—anticipating so much pain and punishment—and then when he was brave enough, he slipped his fingers beneath the metal, and he gasped, touching easily where he had hardly been able for almost all his life.
His skin buzzed and tingled and his eyes welled up again, and he must not have much time, surely this little bit of freedom would be noticed soon, but—
The collar fell to the side and its light was green for the first time in who knew how long. It had been red the entire time he’d been in here, always illuminating anything he brought before his face.
He picked it up and flung it across the room with one hand, and with the other, he rubbed circles around his neck, pressed into the flesh to feel his own pulse thudding, and he got some sort of satisfaction from the pressure, the ability to feel himself unbarriered, to wrap his fingers all the way around—
He thumbed the raised skin of his scar from where the bullet had hit.
His head swam and his face felt numb, but his stomach burned.
Till wasn’t unfamiliar with the sensation, he’d been trained out of it in Anakt, and then been forced to re-experience it at the hands of his buyers. They would find the swell of his sex, the hot blush that arose on his cheeks, the involuntary sounds he would make—all of it, endlessly entertaining. Humanity’s greatest flaw has always been its capacity for pleasure.
Alone as he could be in this room, though there were doubtlessly cameras watching him still, he felt needy enough for it. He pressed into his stomach, slipping his free hand beneath his shirt. His nerves were alight with the touches, and his heart rate began to quicken but there was nothing— nothing to trigger the punishment for it. He could breathe .
He grinned, for the first time in recent memory, at the ability to let his own heart thud with excitement, to moan aloud, not from fear or pain, but bliss, gratification.
His hand finally reached lower to rub at himself on its own, and he was filling out with blood, but it wasn’t fully stiff yet, he just needed—
He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he tightened the grip on his neck enough for it to cut off his air—all of his own accord—and he wasn’t scared, just accepting, blissful even.
He huffed into the empty room as he began to work himself up, and it was scary, how high he felt he could go before he would fall. It had never felt like this, the gasps for broken, fragile breaths, the intensity of his heart, like it might explode out of his chest. He thought of the surgical scars littering Luka’s body. Something must be wrong for it to hurt so much, but they would always fix him, like they fixed Luka.
He loosened his grip on his throat to allow himself a break, and his fingers crawled their way up his face unwittingly, pressing urgently into his lips, undeniably desperate. He wanted so badly it hurt.
He prayed to no deity that he might open his eyes and see Ivan.
It should be Ivan’s hand on him instead, pumping up and down and giving him this pleasure, this relief, these feelings . He refused to look, not when he knew he wouldn’t see him. He dug his thumb greedily into the head of his sex and he spilled all over his fingers, thinking about Ivan’s eyes on him, his bruising kiss, his hands… hands everywhere .
Why couldn’t he have just finished the job, when his hands were tight around Till’s neck, a brutal squeeze? Why did Till have to be alone with it all?
Ivan had startled him, pressed mean kisses upon his lips, ones he’d asked for so long ago, and Till had refused , had thought it to be a ridiculous joke, confusion making him freeze, making his heart race—
He shouldn’t have refused on stage, he should’ve—he should have kissed him back properly. He’d wish for nothing else as long as he lived.
He didn’t know how good it would feel and now he couldn’t have it ever again.
He wrote songs. It wasn't easy, he didn’t make much of anything. He couldn’t, but it was all he had and all he knew. Inspiration didn’t matter.
He drew. The walls would be reset. His supplies would be replenished.
He talked out loud—he told him sorry—he talked out loud to himself.
One day, he woke up and it was dark.
He had slept in that other bed and he had to navigate the unfamiliar layout of the room, one that wasn’t ingrained in him so intensely as his own bedroom. He almost tripped over his supplies, stepping all over his drawings, hearing the paper crinkle and tear, in his desperation to get to the window.
There weren’t… there were no stars . Not like there would be before, when he and the other kids would look up into the sky and try to map them all. Directly above everything was just black—off.
All he had was the red light from his collar, just enough to see his fingers if he brought them close.
He stumbled back, the training made his heart remain calm, but he couldn’t help but worry that they must have forgotten about him or intentionally left him to die here slowly.
His feet took him out the door in a mad dash. This room was so much closer to the way outside.
He couldn’t see anything he’d drawn on the walls as he ran past. His eyes began a distressed attempt to adjust but they couldn’t make out much, just dark, warped shapes.
When he felt the grass between his toes, he was at least comforted by the fact he was definitely still in Anakt Garden. That was true. He wasn’t sure why he may have even doubted it.
He wandered, idly relishing in the darkness he’d been denied all this time, but his simmering fear wouldn’t let him relax. His eyes were both grateful for the lack of light and becoming overwhelmed with the strain, craving to see.
He made his way to the real exit, not the one out into the garden, but that which would take him places beyond Anakt. The typical red lights denoting their power-status, that they were locked and functioning, weren’t on .
He tried—
—and began to laugh manically at how pitiful he must’ve been to even attempt. Of course they wouldn’t open. Shame, dismay, every ugly feeling rushed through his veins.
He allowed himself to fall back, landing on his ass unceremoniously, holding his head in his hands and focusing on nothing but his breaths and his heart like he needed to, been conditioned to.
He looked up at his IV. It could be his last ever saline bag. Should he savor its hydration, or tear out the needle to speed up the process?
His back was to the wall, and then he slowly slid further and further down, the weight of his body unbearable, until he lay flat. The ground was hard beneath his head. It could hurt if he could fall.
He wasn’t tired and he didn’t have the energy to move, and certainly none to talk and soothe, to help himself feel—not alone. He had nothing left to say. He’d spoken aloud every apology he could. He’d meant every one.
Those words… wouldn’t reach that person. They couldn’t.
The touches began suddenly. He’d not felt anything but gloved hands for too long, his skin erupted in bumps at the sensation of slow fingers trailing up and down his flesh.
They were faint until they weren't, and it made him jump up, sitting rigidly, wondering if he should try and scramble away from it, or lean in. Nails digging into his arms, cutting into his wrist, didn’t feel all that dissimilar to the pinches of needles.
He brought his arm to his face, the red light of his collar illuminating just enough and it wasn’t real, whatever he was feeling was not there, but he was bleeding, a cut right where he’d felt those stings. Perhaps he was at his limit, hallucinating another presence with him. He must’ve broken something, and it was not like he was able to see it. There was likely a shard, something sharp on the ground that he’d hurt himself on without realizing.
He reached trembling hands out around him to feel for it when he imagined more touches, prodding and lazy, intrusive and lackadaisical, all along parts he wouldn’t want to be felt, the sides of his ribs, the line of thigh, along his jaw to the tip of his chin.
Till found nothing on the ground as he grew more frantic and they grew more insistent. He pressed up against the wall, but he felt them still, breaking through his clothes, through the wall, like they had perfect access to his skin, drawing up and along the knots of his spine.
“Hello?” he called, too quiet. It didn’t echo through the hallway the way he expected it to. His voice was weak, and it made little sense. He’d been able to speak yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Now his throat felt thick, like swallowing down a handful of pebbles, coughing on their dust.
He blinked quickly, and the training was for naught as every bit of composure he thought himself to have didn’t withstand the barrage of memories—segyein who would hit him upside the head, force him to his knees, shove themselves down his throat—
He was choking.
He could see, and feel. The room wasn’t actually bright—not like Anakt’s blue sky—but intense, strobing lights lay beyond a cracked door. It made him feel dizzy.
His body was heavy and his head was groggy, and fingers were in his mouth, pressing urgent upon his tongue and then further. Laugher, low and guttural, was muffled, hard to make out through Till’s clogged ears.
When the fingers left him, clicking their nails upon his molars as they removed themselves from his mouth, soaked shiny with his saliva, they wiped across his lips and cheeks, wet.
He coughed with the absence, his throat clear but so sore still.
“He’s bleeding.”
A segyein knelt before him, taking his head between its overly large fingers. He looked at its scaled face with bleary eyes.
“Its face—so dirty. Disgusting.”
Till could taste it now, metallic on his tastebuds, a ticklish run over his lips into the grooves of his teeth—a nosebleed.
“Isn’t he supposed to be asleep?”
Till’s head was pounding, a not unfamiliar feeling. These drugs—he knew their effects. He used to be given them quite frequently to keep him in line if they ever thought he seriously posed a danger to guests at the club. He remembered those days. They always made him feel utterly gone, and really, he often wished not to be present. He couldn’t quite resent them, not fully anyway.
How had he not realized? The touches hadn’t been the hallucination at all.
The drugs were on the out, he could tell, leaving his system and causing Till to be utterly ruined in the process. His mind spun but he wasn’t allowed time or given any sort of care, the segyeins simply continued, taking what they were there for, what they paid for.
He was leaned over a table, in no way unfamiliar, though his feet weren’t even allowed onto the ground to steady himself, instead his knees were forced apart and he was encouraged to wrap his legs around the segyein behind him. It grabbed Till’s hips and began rocking them, rubbing itself against him in time.
Till had been curious for so long, what could have possibly been valuable enough to keep him there, alive, and he should’ve known—it should have been obvious all this time.
Urak had always valued his body. The songs, his performances, they had always been secondary.
“I like when he’s awake more anyway. He’d been pretty dull, don’t you think? He’s louder now.”
Till still couldn’t move parts of himself, the drug made him feel so disconnected from his body. Even while he was awake enough to give it commands, it was unable to comply.
He didn’t quite understand, what was dreamed, what wasn’t, but he couldn’t wonder, before he was distracted. He was entirely bare to them, easy to touch, feel, a too-large wet tongue licked eagerly up the side of his face.
Surely this wasn’t what became of all the dead contestants. He saw them stop breathing. He saw Ivan—
He could only hope the runner-up was someone special.
Finger prodded at his ass and Till whined uncontrollably, humiliating to his own ears, he recalled believing himself to be done that last night in the club, yet that was a pipe dream. The freedom wasn’t real and had never been. He would never be allowed it.
A mouth slot itself against his own, and segyeins have never done that. It wasn’t in their nature. Meaning they wanted to try— Till could only assume it was because—
It’s tongue slipped between his lips and teeth, slithering too far back until he gagged, and the alien just hummed into the kiss.
Kiss , he was being kissed by it.
Perhaps Ivan had unknowingly started a trend. Till would vomit if he could, but instead he just took it, the pressure, the choking. Was it not to be expected at that point, that Till would experience these things?
He gasped when it left his throat and they gripped his face between two hands, toying with the lobes of his ears. Like, like—
“He’s lucky that one doesn’t care about the blood.”
“He’s covered in it.”
Too many hands took his arms in a bruising grip, like every one of them wanted to cage him and leave their own mark. None of them must be that wealthy, not if they were doing this as a group. Maybe they even pooled funds, ha.
He was held in place while the first one entered him, they were swift and brutal, gleeful to be fucking him. Till mouth was smothered in more kisses, only the one with that tongue daring to near his face.
And Till closed his eyes, those things that were so painful to think about, that he hadn’t let himself—he’d locked away—came rushing forward fully, not how he’d remembered before, when it was just Ivan’s last act on stage, another thing stolen from Till, but instead every moment, every touch when they were kids, when Ivan would pin him to the ground, his hands upon Till’s arms in just this way, when he’d touch Till’s cheek, turn his head and practically beg, look at me—all the while knowing it was Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. Not some made up person.
This could be his sanctuary if he let it. This could soothe.
Ivan fucked into him and the pain was good, for the first time in a long time. Till came from that alone, his heart throbbed in his chest and he couldn’t hear the sounds anymore, all muffled in his ears from his orgasm. He began to moan as he wondered how he and Ivan hadn’t done this before, hadn’t snuck away, been alone—like when Ivan had dragged him out in the dead of night and stars were falling from the sky.
Till opened his eyes again and gratefully, beyond everything going on around him, he could see a window. The sky outside was full of swirling blues and purples, and stars, so many stars. Galaxies.
Ivan tugged on his hair until it hurt—he missed that so much—and he panted in his ears breathily. Till could feel the moisture, the wet huffs almost a cooling air upon his sweaty skin. The weight upon Till’s back was too large—
It didn’t matter when Ivan kissed him again. Till needed this, he needed it to hurt, he needed to choke, he needed to choke Ivan, so he could understand how it felt. Till needed to be shot, he needed to collapse and take everything with him. Ivan should be forced to know how impossible it was to be alone. He was the coward. It was all so unfair.
But then Till would remember his eyes, how they lit up, the blush on Ivan’s cheeks, overwhelmed and in pain and also so happy . He’d gotten everything he wanted when he died anyway.
Till pulled him back instead of thinking about Ivan falling and bloody, he kissed him, he didn’t push at his chest, didn’t push him away . Instead, he just curled his fingers into the fabric of Ivan’s white, pressed shirt and prayed. He prayed to Anakt, looping it in his mind. He hoped he wouldn’t lose this again, that he’d remain conscious, that he’d feel what was happening to his body, that he’d keep Ivan, painful, unforgivable Ivan, just there upon his lips, inside himself, pumping him up and down with needy, human fingers.
Ivan had ruined it all with love, honestly, when they could’ve always had this—overwhelmingly brutal and unkind, ensnaring.
Till woke up in that unfamiliar bed. It was Ivan’s bed. How had he forgotten? He wasn’t alone. Ivan licked up his neck, and he wasted no time shoving Till’s thighs apart and pressing into his insides.
Till looked out the window and saw the sun rising over the garden. Ivan’s window had always had a much better view than his.