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In the hallowed halls of Anakt Garden, the children murmur words of blasphemy. Humans were free before, he'd hear them say in hushed voices. Our own God loved us, once upon a time.
“You are free here,” the alien matron whispers in return, gnarled hands snatching them from the shadows one by one. “The Great Anakt loves you, his chosen songbirds. Bless us with your voices, and he will deliver salvation upon you all.”
Rough claws grip onto the back of his neck, and the collar against Ivan’s throat feels cold and heavy. The metallic click echoes through the halls as the matron passes by each child of the fiftieth class. If he concentrates hard enough, the grass underneath his bare feet feels like ashes, the artificial wind hot and heavy against his cheeks. His throat is dry and his lips are chapped from the incessant hours under the whims of alien experimentation and the days pass by in metronomic monotone.
He sees a flower crown flutter by, one sunlit day, red petals framing black stigma. The wind drifts the crown towards the entrance of Anakt Garden, where he knows the alien guard dog lies. A boy and girl dashes past him, arms reaching out in a desperate attempt to catch the bouquet. He watches as the petals dance with the whimsy of the wind as it traces its path further into the tunnel, taking the children with it until their voice fades into faint echoes.
Curious, Ivan follows after them.
There is a girl covering her mouth in horror, whom Ivan vaguely knows as Mizi. There is the boy, kneeling on the ground as the monster dog snarls. His defiant screams reverberate in Ivan’s bones. The flower crown is stuck between the ivory gashes of the dog’s teeth, but the boy attempts to reach for it anyway.
This is the beginning of his end.
“For you,” Till says, hands holding out a red anemone flower crown towards Ivan. “As thanks.” Ivan blinks, staring at the familiar red wreath. Till taps his foot impatiently, “For retrieving the flowers, you dumbass.”
“I don’t want it,” Ivan says flatly. “What would I do with a flower crown? Eat it?” What will I do with a crown that isn’t made for me, is what he doesn’t say. But he snatches the wreath from the boy’s hands and drops it to the ground. He lifts his feet, and steps down.
“You bastard–” Till’s palms dart out towards his face. “Mizi made that.” A fist hits the sharp edges of his cheekbones. Ivan freezes for a moment in shock. Another fist comes swinging at him. A laugh bubbles out of his lips, and his feet impulsively kicks up at the boy.
And in that moment – for the first time since teetering on the edge of oblivion, where the weeping stars had filled his gaze that cold, cold night – the world unravels into vivid colours.
Green, he thinks. His eyes are green.
“He doesn’t love you, you know,” Sua says to him. They’re sitting side by side underneath the shadows of the willow tree. Her warm shoulders press against his as she gently ties the stems of mauve clematis together. Before them, Till and Mizi chase after each other. Mizi stumbles, and Ivan watches as Till’s hands dash out to catch her.
“I know,” Ivan replies. He doesn't love Till either, not really. What he wants, he thinks, is the unconditional way Till follows Mizi to the end of the world, tender eyes and starshine voice and the warmth of rebellious fire by his side.
“You’ll burn yourself out, grasping onto something that can never be yours.” He can hear the frown in Sua’s voice.
“I don’t care.”
They lapse into silence. Mizi’s picked herself back up, and the duo has resumed their game of tiger and rabbit. Sua continues folding the stems together – one, two, three creases before she knots.
“I won’t let her find out.” Sua finally says, and places the finished flower crown onto her lap. “I love her, I love the way she smiles and laughs even as we’re poked and prodded with needles. I will die for her.”
“Then you must be a fool,” Ivan says blithely. “She will find out in due time, anyway.”
Sua smiles bitterly. “If loving someone makes me a fool, then let me die a fool.” She stands up, staring straight ahead while brushing the dirt off her ivory dress. “Maybe you'll understand one day.” She walks off towards Mizi and Till before Ivan can reply.
He watches her leave, watches Mizi and Till welcome her with open arms, smiles so bright and brilliant. Sua laughs as she gently places the crown upon pink hair.
They do not look back at him.
“What if we ran away from here, one day?” Ivan hears Till whisper to Mizi. The scene is etched into his soul: the way Till’s hands grips the girl’s slender fingers, fiery gaze fuelled by yearning and hope, forehead pressed against forehead.
He wants that for himself. He wants Till to look at him with that same regard.
“It’s so lovely here,” Mizi replies in that sweet, windchime laugh. “What is there to escape from?”
“What is freedom?” he asks Till later that day, placing his dinner tray onto the table.
“Don’t be silly,” Till scoffs. “Freedom is escaping from,” he places his fork down and gestures at their surroundings, “All this.” His hand reaches towards Ivan and pinches his cheeks, thumb carelessly tracing over the scab next to his lips. “From this.”
Ivan frowns, and his hand reaches up to snatch Till's hand into his. “I see,” he says, but he doesn’t, really. All he knows is the musty scent of the slums, the starry night skies, the opulent food set before him when he sings in just the way he knows Guardian Unsha and his business partners adore.
Till picks his fork back up, and shovels the tasteless slop into his mouth. “We'll get out of here,” Ivan hears him mumble between spoonful. “I’ll get us out of here.” Those green eyes stare off into the distance, and Ivan wonders if Till thinks of him at all.
So Ivan offers Till the only thing that can make the boy look his way: freedom.
“Come,” he says. “I know how to leave this place.” Till softly gasps, the light in his eyes reminiscent of the shooting stars Ivan had seen five years ago when he teetered on the edge of the universe. For the first time, Till's hands reach out to grasp his own. It is warm and clammy and Ivan feels his own pulse stutter with an emotion he can't explain. He takes one step forward, then another, then another. Together, they begin to run. He looks back at Till, and traces the image of the beaming smile made just for him in the contours of his memories.
But – the hand that had held so tightly in his grip begins to loosen. Till’s shrill, delirious laughter slowly dies into silence, and Ivan feels the last ring finger fall away from his hand. He stops in his tracks, and looks back at Till. Freedom is seven breaths away and the sky is littered with weeping stars, the colour of blazing red fire that he’s come to know Till as.
Till stares at him, an amalgamation of twisted want and despair and a breath oscillating on the precipice of hope all in one.
In those brief, edelweiss moments, they are two souls caught between the grasps of love and devotion.
Ivan stares back at him. Seven breaths to freedom that he knows all the other humans crave so desperately for, and the boy he wants so desperately five breaths behind him.
He watches Till clench his teeth; knows that the boy knows that freedom is just one handhold away. Ivan, whose left hand is still extended out, who has always known how to leave but never wanted to. But there is no hesitation. Till turns away without another word, and begins tracing their steps faster than they had come. One, two, three. Under the watchful eyes of dying stars, Ivan chokes out an disbelieving laugh. His hand and his heart that had just felt so full now feels so frightfully empty.
Ivan knows, in that moment, that he is destined to die.
“They won't let it happen again,” Guardian Unsha says.
"Let what happen?" Ivan asks innocently. He's seated on the floor next to his owner's legs, his back against the plush cushion of the armchair. Unsha's filthy, grotesque hand cards possessively through his hair. It is a familiar feeling, the stroke on his head a steady four beats per measure, the way it always has been since the alien adopted him fourteen years ago. Before them is a replay of the latest round of Alien Stage, the bright strobing stage lights waning and waxing in the dark room.
His guardian stares reproachingly at him. “The girl. They won't wait to gun down the next human that acts out.” Unsha sighs and stares forlornly at the holographic television. “What she did to Luka's face is such a shame. The loss in points was deserved.” The grip on his head tightens momentarily.
Ivan hums non-committedly.
The artificial rain glimmers effervescent, reminiscent of the dying stars twelve years ago when they were seven breaths away from freedom. Ivan ends his phrase, vibrato blending into the electric pulse of the music. He waits for the silver notes that’s supposed to ring out two measures later, but instead, is greeted only by the metronomic taps of the rain.
Before them, buried in the alien crowd, is the persistent red laser that aims innocently to the hologram behind them but that Ivan knows is meant for anything but a laser pointer. The boy next to him is a ghost of his former self; that rebellious, defiant fire tempered into despondency. This boy, whom he had inexplicably, inescapably fallen in love with piece by piece, now shattered into a small, frail thing. Ivan hates Mizi for this. Hates himself for this, hates that still, he tries to grasp so desperately onto fraying strands of hope, praying that Till will miss him as much as he misses Mizi when he’s gone.
There is only ninety-three seconds left of the song.
He slams his mouth against Till’s, kisses the boy that had somehow, in between murky days, became the centre of his orbit. Till stiffens under him, and for a moment that fire that Ivan loved burns back into existence, mouth pursing in defiance and the slamming of fists against Ivan’s left shoulder as he tries to push him away.
Underneath the sombre rain, the kiss tastes of bitter fear and resignation.
Ivan wants to laugh. Even when they’re teetering together on the edge of the abyss, Till will never be his. He surges forward again, and Till surges backwards, exerting every effort to escape from him. His fingers crawl up to Till’s neck, and the erratic pulse of Till’s heart feels just like his own. The bob of his Adam’s apple is hard against his thumb. He presses.
When Till shuts his eyes and goes limp, Ivan knows that Till thinks that this too, is the end of him. The points on the scoreboard flicker behind them.
Ivan continues to tighten his hands around Till’s neck. The dysrhythmic pulse under his hands begins to slow, and so do the points on the hologram. Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy. To the left, Till’s score blinks a steady eighty, and Ivan feels his heart tremble.
He leans forward, pressing lips against lips, his last offering of clemency before his execution.
The heat of the gun laser beams through his shirt. His hands tighten against Till’s neck as the first shot strikes true, lodging itself in the confines of his ribcage. The second shot comes four beats later and grazes his shoulder – the pain blooms like the red anemone flowers Till had gifted him so long ago. Ivan wonders if the shot was meant for his neck instead. But then there is the third, that lands so perfectly in the cavity of his lungs, and the impact makes him cough. The taste of blood bubbles up onto his tongue – salty, like the taste of Till’s blood that trickles from the scratches on his cheek.
He loosens his grip on Till’s neck as the last note of the song fades. In the haze of the dying light, he sees Till's verdant green eyes flicker open – sees the way those eyes take two heartbeats to focus before widening in horror. Is it Ivan that he sees before him? Or is it Mizi, as sure as the stars that always fall on the thirtieth day like clockwork? Does Till know that he is Ivan’s god, his universe, from that very first day he laid eyes upon him?
He sees Till's mouth tremble open, as if to call out his name –
– Perhaps this too, is freedom.