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The rain. Ivan could feel it, soft feather kisses cascading through his hair, brushing his lips, clinging to the tip of his eyelashes. How could he sing with such overwhelming sensation, the endless flood that seemed to fill his eyes, blur his vision, drown out the sound of his own voice?
But of course, singing came easily, even in the downpour. His mind hardly lingered on the words, his breath only pushing against vowels and teeth, the lyrics drifting and tugging at his insides from some far, unknown place. The glitter of misshapen and grotesque eyes that dotted the otherwise black abyss of the crowd, the obscured noise of his shoes on the tiled ground as he approached the stage, the ever-subtle swish of fabric as he tipped his head back, it waved through his flesh in imperceptible rounds of panic, serenity, and abstract passion.
He couldn’t dare let himself glance at Till. Was it not enough to be staggering in the swells of his own thoughts? To see him, to know it would be the last, fleeting moment of admiration, of devotion, before the jaws of death and the blackness of its stomach could blot out every evidence of it, would surely cause him to do one of the unspeakable what-ifs that Ivan had filed away a long time ago.
Those what ifs, the patterns that spiraled and kaleidoscoped in rhythmic beams of ecstasy and sorrow.
If only he could have just one moment of purity with Till, just one second of warmth, where the despair, the emptiness, of this human existence might fade into nothing but a dull ache.
That is when, amidst the tireless collection of sound, one consistent melody fell silent.
Till had stopped singing.
Ivan, before he could consider it, found his entire body sway to the impulse that he knew would destroy him.
In the brief moment before Ivan engaged in one of his most salient what-ifs, he noticed the final features of Till, he memorized them in spite of the fact that there would be no time to remember it.
His pale, ashen hair had been laid flat against his cream complexion, his eyes downcast and overflowing with a profound agony that could only be directed inward. The curves of his shoulder, waist, and wrists bent angelically with the rain-soaked fabric of his stage outfit, a black fabric that had lost its depth as it had gotten drenched. His lips quivered, but not with music or cries, but the worst affliction any performer could have. Silence, a worrisome silence that would cost Till his life.
Ivan stepped forward, determined. He knew not of what might occur, knew not of what the consequences following his action might be. He supposed it was not worth considering, if he knew there would only be blackness for him to fall into.
His palm collided with the edge of Till’s jaw, tilting his face into his own. Before a flicker of confusion could settle on his face, Ivan pressed his mouth forcefully into Till’s, letting his lips push into the man he had spent years wanting to devour.
Till’s own fists angrily confronted Ivan’s chest, attempting to shove him away. Ivan knew that, if this were his one sweet moment amongst the sorrow, he wouldn’t permit Till from stealing it away. Till had a hold of his life, after all. It was one small compromise to allow him to have just one embrace in exchange.
With his one last indulgence stolen, Ivan dragged his fingers from the gentle strands of Till’s soaked hair, bringing them to rest on either side of the man’s slender throat.
He had known that the runners of Alien Stage did not allow for violence between contestants. He had also known that by squeezing only the sides of Till’s throat, he would not cause real harm to the man he loved.
Till’s eyes went from overblown emotion to a quiet, slippery acceptance as he closed his eyes and allowed his opponent to choke him. Yet Ivan stayed alert, quickly sparring a glance at the points that descended rapidly in a flash as the crowd disapproved of his violence.
Now that he had ensured Till’s survival, he loosened his grip and gave him what he wished he could revel in, but could only have in the seconds before his demise.
He tenderly kissed Till, with a softness that argued for more time, that carved more space for him, his love, a kiss slow and deliberate, as if he were not swiftly running out of heartbeats.
The bullet came with no hesitation, tearing through his abdomen with a force of heat and mortality.
He kept his sight steady on his last chance at memorizing his lover’s face. He stared deep into Till’s unforgiving eyes. He swallowed Till’s betrayed soul.
The second bullet was aimed for his shoulder.
The third came for his leg.
The hot liquid of crimson blood leaped up his throat, spilling from his mouth and blending with the water of the rain that still cried from above. As his energy began to slip from his bones, he could only feel his lips pull into a smile. To die with Till’s taste on his tongue, Till’s eyes on his own, Till’s throat behind his fingers, it was a peaceful death.