Chapter Text
I didn’t do it right. (Can I try again, try again, try again.)
and again and again and again.
Ivan had once read that love made men foolish.
That it broke them apart, tearing apart the very fabric of their soul until they were nothing but a shell to devote to their lover. Love warped a man’s view of the world, turning it on its axis until it crumbled and fell in on itself. Love was, in a way, said to be god’s punishment to humanity.
Ivan refused to believe it. Because, to Ivan, love was his cure. Love set his heart alight, relit the instinctive desire to live buried deep within him. Before love, before Till, Ivan was an empty shell. Just a puppet for his owner to pop on his knee and coo over. Before love, Ivan had no purpose.
And now, now, Ivan’s purpose was clear.
If love made him foolish, then so be it. He’d take the foolish route, the cowardly path, because Ivan’s love was too dependent to flourish on its own. He was but a flower, red petals and a bright yellow centre, straining for Till’s light to touch him, to nurture his love into something stronger. He’d merely wilt without his sun there to give him life.
Thank you, he thought somewhat desperately, fighting off the fear that gripped his insides as blood spurted from his mouth. Thank you, for being the victim of my shallow emotions. He let go, falling like his stars had done so long ago, when they’d run amongst the burning plains and dared to take freedom for themselves. But what foolish things love makes of us, because they’d both given up that freedom for the person they loved.
If only that person could have been each other.
If only—
Till’s eyes finally met his as he crashed to the rain slicked ground. Ivan smiled. You finally looked at me…
You finally saw me…
…
..
.
You idiot.
…
..
.
Look at what you’ve done.
…
..
.
Ivan woke to an empty room with a gasp, sweat causing his bangs to stick to his forehead. He groaned, running a hand over his face. His head hurt. Fuck. Ivan blinked up at the ceiling, trying to unscramble his brain. He knew he’d been worried about the upcoming round, but to dream of it? In such detail too.
Is It a premonition? But it can’t be,Till would never give up so easily. He slowly touched a hand to his lips, his ears growing ever slightly hot. It wasn’t like it was the first time he’d dreamt of kissing Till, but this one had been particularly real. He could practically taste the rain on his lips, remembering the way they had moulded together so perfectly.
Ivan cleared his throat, sitting up hurriedly before his mind could wander. It would do good to forget all about the dream. It wasn’t like Till would ever allow himself to be kissed like that.
But Ivan just could not shake off the wrongness that seemed etched into his bones.
Déjà Vu was an experience that Mizi had told him about once. ‘It’s where you remember certain moments from a past life,’ she’d said eagerly, pink hair flying in the wind.
‘Do you believe in past lives?’ Ivan had asked her, their shoulders brushing as they’d walked to meet Till and Sua after classes.
‘I think they sound nice.’ She’d paused then, her golden eyes gaining a far away look in them. ‘I hope I was happy in my past lives,’ she’d said quietly.
Ivan’s eyes had caught on those fake red flowers that littered the gardens. He’d stooped, plucked one of them between his middle and forefinger. ‘Are you happy in this one?’ He’d asked, tucking the flower behind her ear somewhat awkwardly. He’d seen Sua doing the same for her just last week, and it had made Mizi beam happily.
Mizi had turned her head to face him, smiling that soft smile that made both Till and Sua turn red. She’d linked their arms together, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘I am now,’ she’d said firmly.
On an impulse, Ivan turned to rest his cheek against the top of her head. ‘Well that’s all that matters then.’
Ivan had long since forgotten about that conversation in the years that passed since then. The only part of that day he’d remember was the way Till had glowered at him upon seeing Mizi’s head on his shoulder, prompting Ivan to throw fake grass in his face.
But now—
Now he remembered that evening, with the sun setting on their backs. It seemed like everything he did today was déjà vu. The fight that broke out between two fifteen year olds in the canteen over breakfast. Ivan’s shirt sleeve getting caught on his door handle and ripping. Spying Luka in the medics room when he’d peeked through the keyhole, hoping to catch a glimpse of Till.
The whole day felt eerie. Wrong.
That’s probably because you’re about to face the love of your life in a singing death match.
Ivan stared up at his ceiling, mentally counting down the seconds before the aliens were due to drag him out to be dressed like their favourite dolls. Is this really how it’s going to end? After everything, after all these years. They were just another set of letters on a screen, with voices to obsess over until the new season came around.
He was foolish to expect anything else.
It was cruel, to dress him in all white like a man about to be wed when he was to sing with his love before one of them met their end. He spied a glance at Till, Till who never and would never look at him, staring unseeing at the crowds in front. Ivan swallowed, tearing his gaze away. The brand on his wrist itched, his stomach twisted in what could be fear.
Love really does make men foolish, he thought sadly, smiling bitterly. Perhaps his dream really was a premonition.
Ivan wasn’t going to be leaving this stage. It was terrifying how little he cared about that.
It must have been a vision. Till stopped singing. Ivan kissed him, tasted the rain on his lips. Wrapped his hands around his throat, all for show. Three shots, blood in his mouth. Till’s eyes finally meeting his.
You finally looked at me…
And then nothing.
Just darkness.
Just—
Ivan jerked awake, his blankets slipping from his form. What— His chest heaved for air, and Ivan brought a hand up to clutch at his chest, his shoulder, his hand coming away clean.
Ivan leapt from his bed, scrambling across his room until he was in front of the mirror he’d never requested but was gifted anyway. His eyes were wild, his bangs sticking to his forehead. But his face was clean. Ivan could still taste the iron tang of blood in his mouth, the cold rain running down his face.
No…
Ivan ripped his shirt off, twisting to examine every inch of his torso, his breaths quickening at the sight of smooth, unmarked skin.
No, no, no.
Once was acceptable, twice was a coincidence. Three times though—
Oh no.
This was not the first time he’d lived this day. And Ivan had the horrifying, stomach dropping realisation that this wouldn’t be the last.
The fight In the cafeteria. His ripped shirt sleeve. Luka bruised and battered in the medics room. The white suit. Till’s blank gaze. The kiss. The choke. Blood in his mouth. Till meeting his gaze at long last.
You finally looked at me…
…
..
.
Ivan woke with tears already in his eyes, choking on the air in his lungs.
No, no, no, no!
Ivan slapped both the fifteen year olds upside the head when he noticed the tensions rising. He rolled his sleeve up to his elbow before opening the door. He steered clear of the medics room. Till wasn’t there.
Maybe I need to deviate from the normal, he thought frantically, pacing back and forth in his room. Maybe I can’t sacrifice myself. It’s against the rules. I just have to sing. That’s all.
He just had to sing, that was all.
He didn’t react when they pulled out the white suit, in his minds eye already envisioning the blood that would stain it. He very nearly threw up.
Standing on the platform next to Till, waiting for the floor to raise and bring them onto the stage. Ivan swallowed nervously, noting his bank gaze. It can’t be blank, it’s blank in all of these. That’s what must be wrong. Till isn’t supposed to be emotionless.
He prodded Till’s shoulder non too gently. “Till.”
Nothing. Not even a frown. Ivan shook his shoulder harder. “Till!”
”What?” It wasn’t quite a snap, it was flatter than anything Ivan had ever heard Till say. But it was a reaction, at least.
“Good luck,” he said earnestly, fighting the urge to squeeze his shoulder.
That at least, struck a nerve. “Stop trying to psyche me out,” Till snapped, glaring at his shiny silver shoes. Ivan remembered how those shoes became stained with blood.
Ivan shrugged. “I’m not. I just want to wish you luck.”
Till scoffed at that, shaking Ivan’s hand off his shoulder. “No you don’t.”
”What makes you say that?”
”Are you stupid?” Till whirled on Ivan, a spark of that old fight lighting his green eyes. Finally! Ivan thought gleefully, drowning in his irritated gaze. “Wishing me luck implies you want me to win. And you know what happens if I win.”
”Maybe I do want you to win.” Till’s eyes widened a fraction. “Ever thought of that?”
Till glared at him, a shadow of his former self but it was something at least. “Just focus on singing,” Till muttered, turning away as the platform started to rise, cueing the music. “Don’t worry about me.”
”Only if you promise to do the same.”
Till stared at him in bewilderment, but Ivan refused to elaborate. Just focus on singing, please. Don’t give up. That’s what they want.
The music played. Till sang. He sang to Mizi, in a voice that Ivan barely recognised, dejected and sorrowful. Ivan fiddled nervously with the microphone. The fire that Ivan had sparked earlier had died once more.
When it was Ivan’s turn to sing, he stared at Till. He let his eyes bore into his skull while he sang to him, at him. Please react. He wanted to make Till uncomfortable, goad him into something, anything other than this listless silence. When the chorus came, just like every other time, Ivan sang alone, Till not bothering to harmonise with him. No… Till was giving up again, he had given up. Just like every other time they stood side by side on this stage.
The song was drawing to a close, the final chorus waiting to be sung. Till was still silent, simply staring.
No, no, no.
Ivan threw his microphone to the floor, barely hearing the resounding clatter over the pounding of his heart. Storming across the rain slicked stage, he grabbed hold of Till’s shoulder roughly, shaking it hard. “Why aren’t you singing?” he shouted, uncaring of the audience watching. All he saw was Till, staring up at him with wide, confused eyes. “Just sing dammit!” He grabbed hold of Till’s shirt with one hand, shoving him harshly across the stage. “All you have to do is sing! You want to win, don’t you? I don’t get why you keep—“
Ivan was interrupted by pain erupting from his shoulder, white suit stained red. Oh… For a moment he’d almost forgotten his fate. He reached out blindly, grasping hold of Till’s rain soaked cheek. “You can’t give up,” he pleaded, “please stop giving up.” His voice shook when the second shot ripped into his side. No matter how many times it happened, it still hurt just like the first. “Just sing, please Till I—“
Blood in his mouth. Vision wavering. Till’s horrified eyes finally meeting his own. He crashed inelegantly to the floor, his blood mixing with the rainwater.
You finally looked at me…
…
..
.
Bastard.
…
..
.
You really don’t understand, do you?
…
..
.
Ivan woke with rage burning in his chest, glaring up at his ceiling. Why won’t he just sing?
This unnatural stillness, his detachment, this wasn’t Till. That was what was wrong, that was why this day kept repeating. Till was a fire, a sun, a bomb waiting to explode at any moment and this was wrong.
Throwing his blankets off him with a scowl, Ivan stormed out of his room, not even bothering to change out of his sleep clothes. If Till was determined to lay down and let the aliens run all over him like every other bastard in this place, well Ivan wasn’t going to let that happen.
Just in case though, he rolled his sleeve up to his elbow before he opened the door. He wasn’t paranoid. Not at all.
Till, when Ivan slammed his door open, was sat on the floor, not even hooked up to any collars this time just… sitting there. Staring blankly at the wall in front.
It made the anger that had been bubbling since the first time Till refused to sing spill over.
“What the hell is this?” He yelled, digging his nails into the palm of his hand.
Till flinched, finally lifting his head to face him. His gaze was somewhat glazed, fixing itself to a point just over Ivan’s shoulder. Always looking near him, never at him.
Ivan covered the length of the room in three, furious steps, hands grabbing hold of Till’s bony shoulders and shaking him non too gently. “Look at you!” He spat, “where is your fight? I don’t even recognise you Till!”
Till blinked slowly, weakly attempting to shrug Ivan’s grip off. “What does it matter?” He asked hoarsely, as if he hadn’t used his voice in far too long.
Ivan gaped. It hurt, seeing Till’s indifference like this. It hurt because Till was his god, his shining star, his purpose in this god-forsaken world. But it also hurt, because Till was like this because of her. Mizi was missing, possibly dead, and just like that Till had given up. It hurt, because no matter how hard he tried, Ivan could never make Till care for him as much. Till wouldn’t have noticed if Ivan was the one missing, apart from maybe a twinge of remorse. If even.
It hurt more than any gunshot ever could, piercing the walls he’d spent so long building around his heart. It hurt, because for all that Ivan loved, he was only ever a nuisance.
The thread snapped. Ivan drew back his fist and punched Till right in his expressionless face.
Till fell back with a yell, pulling Ivan on top of him. His eyes blazed for a split second, and Ivan felt a vicious sort of joy at the sight of it. “Is this what you think Mizi would want?” He snarled, jabbing his fist into Till’s side. “You think she’d be happy to see you like this? That she would want you to give up?”
”Shut the fuck up!” Till yelled, managing to catch Ivan’s lower jaw with his flailing fist.
Good! Ivan thought sadistically, hate me. Be angry, be pissed, hate me, FIGHT me!
“Don’t you see that giving up is exactly what those bastards want of you? They’re bored of seeing you rebel; they want this.”
The fight slowly drained from Till, his hand fisted in Ivan’s hair. “Who cares what those bastards want?” He said dejectedly. “What does it matter? We win this season and they’ll enter us in again. And again, and again.” He let his hand fall from Ivan’s hair, slumping against the hard ground. “What is the point?”
Ivan drew back as if he’d been stung. He wasn’t used to this. He hated it. Hated the whole, blasted world. Hated everyone who had ever played a hand in doing this to his shining star.
“You can’t give up.” He murmured, rising slowly to his feet. “This— this isn’t you.”
Till didn’t look his way. “You better get used to it. Good luck tonight.”
The words ripped through him more painful than any bullet ever could.
Bright lights. Fake rain. A white suit. Ivan poked and prodded and pestered Till more than he ever had. He insulted Mizi, insulted his tenacity, pulled his hair and kicked his shin and—
Silence where there should be song. The microphone on the floor. Till’s blank gaze. Blood in his mouth.
You finally looked at me…
…
..
.
Ivan punched the mirror with a strangled yell.
He stared at his broken reflection, blood staining the glass where the skin of his knuckles had split. A sense of resignation weighed on his tongue, and Ivan finally recognised the wild look in his own eyes to be fear.
How many ways can I kill myself before I finally fucking die for real.
How many ways can a man die before the gods give up?
- Choke Till until they shoot
- Jump off the stage
- Smash the microphone and slit throat
ouch - Steal Till’s sedatives and overdose
might be fun - Eaten by alien dog
- Get Till to fucking sing like he’s supposed to so that he’ll win fairly and the fucking cycle will be fixed.
Impossible
Every morning Ivan rewrote the list. Every morning he brainstormed new ideas. Every morning he tried to goade, trick and convince Till that all he needed to do was sing.
He even snuck Into the equipment room and stole Till a guitar to use. Till’s eyes had lit up ever so slightly at the sight of it, before his expression crumpled once more and he shoved the instrument away.
Ivan, in a fit of desperate anger, had smashed the guitar. It was the first time Till looked at him in surprise, excluding whenever Ivan fucking died.
It was a horribly bitter experience to know that he needed to die in order to be acknowledged.
Like clockwork, Ivan ducked his head when the tray sailed over him. Every morning, the teenagers fought over what Ivan was slowly becoming to recognise as the most stupid of reasons. He stared at them curiously, unable to prevent himself from recalling all the times he’d goaded Till into a fight just so that he’d be the sole recipient of Till’s attention for once.
I should have been kinder, he thought with regret, watching them punch the living daylights out of each other. Maybe if he was kinder, more like Mizi, things would have turned out differently.
Maybe then Till would have run with him. Maybe then—
Ivan stood hurriedly, tamping down that train of thought. He swallowed the lump in his throat, rushing out of the cafeteria. It would do no good to dwell.
He forgot to push up his sleeve. His shirt ripped when he opened the door. Ivan wanted to recoil from the familiarity.
Dying, Ivan came to discover, wasn’t anywhere near as painful as he’d imagined. It was only the gunshots that hurt, setting fiery tendrils of pain loose beneath his skin and piercing his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. But death itself was easy. Like slipping into a deep sleep, the ghost of a hand clutching his cheek.
Sometimes there really was a hand. Sometimes Till sank to his knees to join him on the floor. Once, when Ivan had simply clutched onto Till as he fell, Till had attempted to stop the bleeding, trembling hands pressing fruitlessly against each wound. Another time he’d yelled at Ivan while he ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaking. Ivan had punched Till in the face that time, a rare current of anger surging through him at the sight of Till giving up yet again.
It was weird, but Ivan found himself enjoying these moments. His last few moments were always different, Till’s reactions entirely dependent on Ivan’s method of sacrifice. It was the only break in his torturous routine, and the only time Till ever looked at him.
And gradually, over time, Ivan grew numb to the pain. He barely registered the gunshots. His focus solely on Till.
“You idiot,” Till choked, lifting Ivan’s torso to tuck his head into his chest. This time, Ivan had forgone the choking, and he’d simply kissed Till, allowing his lips to say what his words never could.
I love you.
“You idiot, why?” Till’s hands ran through Ivan’s hair shakily, his heartbeat erratic under Ivan’s ear.
Ivan could only manage a smile, closing his eyes as he felt the oh-so-familiar touch of Death upon his shoulder. “Because… because you can’t give up,” he managed, his own words stilted and unrecognisable.
You can’t give up, that’s all I ask of you Till. Please.
He could feel Till’s eyes on him as he sank into his touch, relinquishing his grasp on this cycle. Till may not remember, but Ivan could never forget these stolen moments.
You’re finally looking at me.
….
..
.
”You really like drawing Mizi don’t you,” Ivan commented, flipping through Till’s sketchbook.
Till flinched at his words. “Why are you here?” He commented flatly, pushing himself to his feet and snatching his sketchbook back.
”Can’t I come visit my friend?” Ivan let his gaze wander further around the room, disgust coiling in his stomach at the padded walls and cuffs hanging from the ceiling.
Till sighed, turning away. “Shouldn’t you be practising for later?”
At the mention of their looming round, Ivan’s heart clenched in anticipation. I’m running out of ways to die, he mused, it will get boring soon.
“Shouldn’t you?” He countered, sitting down on Till’s bed. It was a lot smaller and lumpier than his own.
To his surprise, Till came and sat down wearily on the other end of the same bed. He rested his elbows on his knees, glaring down at the floor. “What does it matter,” he muttered, “you’re going to win.”
Ivan sucked in a sharp breath. If only you knew… “And you’re just going to let me? Come on, you don’t like me that much.” The words tasted foul on his tongue, but Ivan said them anyway. They were true, after all.
Till scoffed, turning his head away. He didn’t say anything. It would have hurt, if Ivan wasn’t so numb to this pain.
With a sigh, Ivan slowly stood, shaking his head. “Don’t give up now, they don’t deserve that satisfaction.” He made his way to the door, resigning himself to another failed cycle. Perhaps I can choke on my lunch, get this over sooner.
“You’ll beat Luka, I know you will.” Ivan froze, caught within the doorway. “You’re the only bastard here with half a chance.”
Ivan whipped around to look at him, but Till’s face was turned elsewhere. ”You’re the only here who deserves to win this shit show.”
Fat chance, Ivan thought bitterly, sweeping from the room without another word.
”Why don’t you beat him for me,” Ivan muttered against his lips, watching the votes stop climbing. “It’s you who deserves the whole world.”
Till’s face was horrified when Ivan fell. Yet another part of the loop that never changed. Ivan could only feel a sick sort of satisfaction at the sight of it.
You’re finally looking at me.
…
..
.
Maybe dying was the problem. Maybe there was something that needed to occur, and both Ivan and Till needed to be alive for it. Maybe round 6 needed to be postponed.
It was unlikely, but Ivan wanted a break from the constant dying. He’d died fourty -five times now. It was starting to get old. If anything, it was worth a try. After all, if he failed… well he’d just get to try again tomorrow.
A few years ago, Ivan had loosened the bolts on one of the white plates that coated his ceiling. There was an old vent that lay up there. It ran the whole way from the medic bay to the stadium where the contest was held, and it just so happened to pass over Ivan’s bedroom. Ivan used to crawl through it on a regular basis to sneak food into the isolation unit that Till was contained to while he healed from the various abuses he endured. Till was always asleep whenever Ivan arrived, oblivious to every kindness Ivan ever showed him. If it could even be considered kindness, to lay on the floor and watch his chest rise softly as he slept, a tiny furrow in his brows and mouth slightly open. Even while sleeping, Till was rarely at peace.
He was a whole lot bigger now than he used to be, and his shoulders nearly got stuck when he heaved into the tiny space. The last time he’d been in the vents was six months ago, after his first ever round. He’d suspected Till had been sent to isolation after the stunt he’d pulled in his own round and he’d been right.
Ivan had always been tall, having had a random growth spurt when he was eight and just never stopped. He wheezed slightly, feeling more than a little claustrophobic while he fumbled to replace the plate. He’d always been tall, but he’d apparently filled out in the six months since he’d last been up here and now his shoulders were pressed uncomfortably against the surrounding vent.
He huffed, beginning the excruciatingly slow crawl in the direction of the stadium. He knew that it opened up more over there in order to accommodate for the large packs of aliens that filled the seats, and that it was safer to be as far away from his room as possible.
Ivan had just crawled into the large outcove overlooking the corridor that led to the stage when the alarm started blaring. Took them far longer to notice his absence than he’d expected, but he supposed that might just have something to do with the fact that they rarely had reason to suspect anything with Ivan and had probably mistook his prolonged absence as a last minute training session.
He flopped onto his back with a sigh, grimacing at the way the sweat caused his bangs to stick uncomfortably to his forehead. He really had filled out since the last time he’d been in there.
Not for the first time, Ivan couldn’t help but question what was actually going on. He’d never heard of this phenomenon before, being stuck in an endless cycle and unable to break it unless something specific happened. He still wasn’t entirely sure what they wanted from him. What the ending was supposed to be. Isn’t this torture enough to live this life once? What could I have possibly done to deserve repeating my death over and over again? Ivan had never believed the gods to be kind, but he’d thought they’d at least be merciful. He just couldn’t understand why they saw fit to subject him to an eternity of purgatory, without even a clue of what they wanted from him. He wasn’t given a script, and yet they expected him to act out the ending.
He sighed, attempting to tune out the ringing of the alarm, staring morosely up at the ceiling. It didn’t matter. He would die over and over for Till if he had to, because wasn’t this at least better than persevering without him?
How long Ivan lay there, he wasn’t sure. Time had begun to feel fuzzy the more the cycle repeated, and Ivan found himself losing himself to the hours far easier than he ever had before. He’d heard the shouts of aliens and the clanging footsteps of the robot guards as they presumably rushed around to find him, but one ever thought to look up. He was just starting to drift into a light doze when he heard footsteps again. Lighter than the others, a kind of scuffing as if whoever was walking was dragging their feet.
He heard a heavy sigh, and had to fight the urge to roll over and peek through the slats of the vent. If whoever down there heard him—
“I guess he escaped again.” Ivan froze. The voice was quiet, almost muttering under his breath as he talked to himself. “Good for him. I can finally stop feeling so guilty, I guess.”
Feeling his heart rate pick up, Ivan slowly and carefully shuffled over as quietly as he could. He peeked through the slats, breath hitching ever so slightly.
Till was stood in the halfway, his fist clenched and pressed against the tiny graphic of his own face on the wall. He looked tired. He looked beautiful.
“Why did he ever come back in the first place?” Till whispered, his voice echoing through the empty hallway. “He could have run, rid himself of all this shit years ago.”
So could you, Ivan thought sadly. If you just came with me. If you’d never have left.
“It’s because of me that he didn’t.” Something in Till’s voice made Ivan’s heart clench all that bit more. “He’s such an idiot.” He huffed gently at the end, the ghost of a laugh lacing his tone. Ivan watched him shake his head, turning to look at Ivan’s graphic. “Such an idiot. I’m glad he’s run. He… he deserves it. I was never worth all this hassle.”
Ivan watched him push off the wall and continue his journey down the corridor. He swallowed, feeling the pricking of treacherous tears behind his eyes. If only you knew, he thought, smiling that bitter smile once more. If only you knew how much more I’ve done for you. How I’ve died for you, and will continue to die for as long as I have to. How you’re worth all this hassle and more.
Ivan would rip out his own heart and gift it to Till on a silver platter if he was asked, and he’d do it willingly. Till practically owned it already.
That night, Ivan didn’t die. He didn’t sleep either.
He woke up regardless. In his own bed. The cycle reset.
It’s never going to end, is it.
…
..
.
Routine was not an unfamiliar concept to Ivan. For years, he’d been subjected to Anakt Gardens strict schedule. He also had his own schedule outside of Anakt hours, where his owner would drag him along to various parties and shows and make a fuss out of pampering him. It was all mainly for show, Ivan knew, but he found a small part of himself latched onto it.
Growing up in the garden, Ivan knew he was different. The other kids had owners who either cared for them in some way or ignored their existence completely, simply watching them perform from afar. A few of the kids, like Till, had owners who were cruel, and took a sick joy out of leaching their pets of every advantage. One or two kids even had rich owners like Ivan and were shown off and paraded.
But unlike the other kids, Ivan didn’t grow up around other kids. He wasn’t raised in a shelter, he wasn’t looked after. He spent his very first years on the outside, scavenging for food and keeping to himself. His very first ‘owner’ was cruel, and took sick joy in tormenting the kids that ran amok around the buildings. He remembered being held over the edge of a tall building, staring up at the shooting stars and wishing to be as free as them one day. Admiring from afar what was untouchable, beautiful, and never ending. He didn’t even notice that he was crying, too caught in a sense of awe.
When Ivan had been caught by scouters and sold, he never forgot the feeling of a hand gripping the scruff of his neck and the empty space beneath his feet. He’d learned to feel grateful for his new owner’s kindness, even if said kindness was mostly pretend, even if Ivan hated every moment of those parties.
Ivan had always found himself isolated from other kids. They liked him, sure, but he’d never connected with any of them. Never been able to conjure up those smiles they expected from him, never knowing the right thing to say or when people had enough of him. He hadn’t been raised amongst enough people to know how to act, how to feel. Emotions didn’t come easy to him, and any expression he wanted to make was hidden behind a blank mask. He’d learned that the aliens left you alone if you did as they bid, if you performed spectacularly. He’d learned that if you smiled passively and stood where they put you then you’d get extra food in your dinner and neck free from a collar.
The other kids couldn’t understand, but Ivan was just trying to survive.
His owner wasn’t kind, but he wasn’t cruel, and Ivan learned to feel grateful for that.
And most importantly, he was familiar. So he wasn’t as surprised as he probably should be when his feet led him to the banquet table where his owner scoffed his face on luxurious food at every opportunity.
Everything was weird and scary and Ivan just wanted something familiar.
If his owner was surprised by Ivan’s sudden presence, he didn’t show it. Not that Ivan had ever been able to read his expression anyway. He dared to sit down beside him, uncaring of any possible consequences, just craving something different from the routine he was trapped in.
His owner made a pleased sound, reaching out with a large hand to stroke Ivan’s hair. Ivan closed his eyes, leaning into the contact. It was the first time in so long since he’d been touched without having to die first, and Ivan didn’t realise how much he’d missed something so simple.
“You will make me very proud tonight,” his owner was saying, patting Ivan’s hair. “You are the number one, you will easily beat Urak’s rogue.” His owner’s lip curled in disgust at the mention of Till, and Ivan had to bite the side of his cheek to maintain his composure.
The alien patted Ivan’s head for another minute, before he started to shoo him away. “Go on, go practice, we don’t want anyone to think us slacking, do we?”
Ivan stood obediently, resisting the urge to fix his hair immediately. He inclined his head in a polite nod, slowly making his way out of the room. He felt cold now, with the loss of the familiar touch on his head. I never thought of myself as someone who craved touch, he mused, restyling his hair the way he liked it once the door swung shut behind him. I guess this endless cycle reveals things that we never would have expected of ourselves.
Till held him in his arms when he died that night, responding wide eyed to Ivan’s choked plea of ‘touch me… please.’ He was growing numb to the pain of the gunshots, but the points of contact where Till held him burned like a hot iron. It burned, and Ivan craved its heat.
You finally looked at me… you finally touched me…
…
..
.
There came a morning where Ivan stopped writing the list. He couldn’t think of any more ways to die. It didn’t matter anymore, because it didn’t matter if he died or how he died, he woke up anyway. He’d had fun with it. But he wrote Day 69 in his notebook, and then he crossed it out angrily.
Nothing mattered anymore. There seemed to be no ending to this story that satisfied the gods and Ivan hadn’t the energy to care anymore.
The boys were arguing again. Always arguing, and from the unsurprised faces of everyone else, this wasn’t a new thing either. Why waste your time arguing, Ivan thought, putting down his bowl. When time is neither promised nor reliable.
He’d wasted his time arguing after all. And look at where that had gotten him.
With a sigh, Ivan stood just when the taller of the picked up his tray to throw. He slapped a hand on both of their shoulders, shoving them apart. “Alright, listen you two,” he said loudly, shaking them both gently. “This has been going on long enough.” Probably a lot longer for me than for you. He turned to the shorter one, “Your narcissistic tendencies have been causing you to isolate yourself because you are afraid of facing your own faults that you see mirrored in him.” He spun around, poking the taller’s chest harshly, “and you! You are unable to express your frustration with him because of a deep rooted fear of conflict that you gained when you were seven and witnessed two of your guardians fighting, which left you to bottle up up your emotions in fear of being just the same.” Sounds far too relatable… “You have to learn how to express your anger in healthy ways before they explode into fights like this because afterwards you can’t help but to see yourself as a violent person and… And you hate that part of yourself. Keep going like this and you’ll wear yourself down until you’re a shell of your former self.”
He wasn’t sure when he’d replaced the boy’s face with Till’s but he shook his head quickly. “Anger is normal and you have to come to terms with it. And you, stop pissing him off for two seconds.”
The boys blinked up at him in confusion, ther mouths hanging open. Why did I do that? He shook his head, huffing at himself. “Close your mouths unless you plan on catching flies.”
“What the fuck,” the taller boy muttered under his breath once he turned away, at the same time as the shorter one whispered, “how does he know us?”
Are we giving out impromptu therapy sessions now or what? Sua would laugh at him. So would Till. Oh it had been far too long since he’d heard Till laugh.
…
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Day 75
Day 80
Day 87
Day 92
Day—
Ivan sighed. What was even the point in taking down the days. It wasn’t like he could keep a record of them.
Day 93.
There wasn’t a point in doing anything. But there wasn’t any point in not doing anything either.
He stared at his own reflection, spinning the pen carelessly between his fingers. He wished there was a change in his appearance. Some eye bags, sunken cheeks maybe. Even just longer hair would be fine. But he looked just the same as he had—he checked his notes— ninety three cycles ago.
Just seven more cycles and we’ll hit a nice one hundred, he thought wryly.
He pushed away from his desk, the sound of the chair screeching against the hard ground barely even registering. Nothing really registered with him anymore. Nothing except the round, when he faced Till again and again. And even then…
Blood in his mouth. The horror in Till’s eyes. That’s funny, Ivan thought as he fell, I didn’t even notice getting shot. He smiled bitterly. Even death has nothing over me.
Not even death could defeat his love for Till.
“Why?” Till asked, sinking to his knees in the pool of Ivan’s blood.
Because I love you. That never changed. He’d died nearly a hundred times. He’d die a hundred more. It could never change.
”Why?” Till asked again, his voice shaking.
I love you… I love you…
…
..
.
Love is foolish.
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Wouldn’t you agree?
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Ivan didn’t realise he was crying, until he shoved his face into his pillow and felt the damp evidence on his cheeks. Love really is foolish. Oh god why am I such a fool.
He tried not to sacrifice himself. He tried to keep singing. He tried to let his frustrations boil over and hate Till. Tried to out sing him, tried to let his points race ahead for once. But every time.. Till stopped singing. Ivan watched his votes falter. And every time, it was like his feet moved of their own accord, the clanging of the microphone against the floor an omen that refused to leave him.
Till’s lips against his was familiar. Part of the routine. An indulgence that he sank into every time. He’d kissed Till nearly a hundred times, and yet his greedy desire couldn’t be sated.
He wanted to kiss Till and live. He wanted to fall into darkness with Till’s arms around him and wake up in a new day.
He wanted to age, for time to pass, to change. This monotony, this routine, it drove him insane.
His shirt sleeve ripped when he opened his door. Ivan yelled in anger.
And the day continued.
Again.
And again…
Till’s lips against his. Hands around his neck. The muted bang of gunshots. Blood in his mouth. An endless melody. Trapped in forevers embrace.
Curse a heart so intent on loving. Oh curse this foolish heart.
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The corridors seem endless when one has walked them hundreds of times. The route engraved in his memory, a scar that could never fade. He’d visited his owner many times. Seeking comfort, praise, familiarity.
He wasn’t sure why he was visiting this time. He’d set off to find Till, and his feet had led him to the banquet. His stomach turned at the sight. How dare you scoff your face when you have no idea of the horrors I’ve lived through? Of the horrors I will continue to live through.
“You will make me proud,” he said when Ivan sat down, bringing a large hand up to stroke his hair. Ivan bit back a scowl. “You will make me very proud. All your sponsors will be very proud. I have no doubt that you will beat Urak’s horrid rogue.”
“Don’t call him that.” Ivan said lowly.
The hand on his hair paused its movements. Before they had been comforting. Now he felt trapped.
“A rogue is what he is,” his owner said. His hand remained on Ivan’s head. “He is an untrained—“
”—stop.”
”—Malicious, horrid creature. I do not know why he is allowed in such a prestigious competition.”
Ivan tried to pull away but his owners grip tightened. “He is not horrid.” Ivan’s voice was cold. He never used that voice on his owner. “He has been mistreated.”
”He has been coddled,” the alien sniffed. “He should have been culled years ago.”
Ivan snapped.
Grabbing the tall glass in front of him, Ivan hurled it in his owner’s face. Whatever liquid was inside it spilled over Ivan’s front but he didn’t care. He was seething, pent up rage and frustration and pure hopelessness finally spilling over and he’d had enough. He snatched the food from the plate in front at him to shove into his eyes, twisted and dug the knife into his side. For the first time in a while, Ivan saw red. He yelled his anger for the world to hear, let loose his fear and channelled it into a razor sharp edge that he dug just where he knew it hurt.
Ivan had never realised he was capable of such violence, but oh was it liberating.
Perhaps I was too quick to judge. Perhaps Till had been right all this time. Perhaps—
There was a hand around his neck.
Large. Familiar. It tightened around his throat until Ivan’s eyes grew wide. In front of him, his owner seethed. His lazy, rich, indulgent owner who had never raised a hand to harm him.
If Ivan had any hair left in his lungs it would have stuttered.
The hand tightened its grip even more, squeezing his throat. Oh. Ivan stared, wide eyed, clawing weakly at the hand. Oh… His owner had never been cruel. He’d never hurt him. He’d always been so far removed from that very first alien that Ivan had even allowed his guard to let down ever so slightly. He’d grown comfortable. Had indulged in the familiar.
His vision wavered. His chest burned. His eyes stared in shock.
That was the first time in far too long, that Ivan felt his death. If only because it was so unexpected. If only because he felt so betrayed.
But after so long of living the same day, of watching the same people do the same things over and over. Of feeling the same detachment, frustration, love. Of the numbing embrace of death again and again and again.
Fear was unfamiliar. Which was why, when his Owner passed him in the cafeteria and Ivan flinched in remembrance of hands around his neck, he craved it.
He’d never been scared of his owner before. Never realised that all it took for his lazy, placid owner to snap and hurt was to show any scrap of human emotion. Never realised how similar the two aliens in his life really were.
Ivan was scared. And he fucking loved feeling scared.
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..
.
Routine had always been an important part of Ivan’s life. He’d craved the structure of it, never changing, always dependable. Till had always been a part of Ivan’s routine, it was somewhat poetic that Till was the reason Ivan was stuck in an endless routine, an everlasting melody of his own creation.
Ivan scratched out the number 100. He sighed, staring into his unchanging reflection.
It was only his eyes that changed in 100 days. The light in them having gradually dwindled, before it finally gave out. Just endless pools of black with a small dot of red.
Defeated. Helpless. A fool.
He kissed Till with the last dregs of his resolve. No matter how many times he died, his love for Till had yet waver. He choked Till with the lingering remainder of his frustration. He’d given up on making him sing. He’d given himself up to the gods.
He didn’t feel the shots. He never felt them anymore.
He smiled when he fell. Somehow, he always smiled.
Till’s gaze on him, eyes wide, the lights around him dimming as he faded away.
Cheer up… I’ll see you tomorrow…
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..
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Fine…
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Have it your way then…
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Blood stained the tips of his fingers. Till couldn’t stop staring. The room was dark, the collar on his neck too tight.
Nobody had come to take it off.
Nobody would come to take it off.
”You fool,” he murmured into the darkness. His clothes were sticky with blood. “You fool.”
Till stared at his blood stained fingers. His breaths quickened, on the verge of a sob.
”You fucking fool.”
I’ve spent a lifetime giving you my heart. (I swear that I’ll be yours forever.)
till forever falls apart…