Work Text:
Till,
I never really told you about the flowers, did I?
***
Ivan has always known this was coming.
Around him, the students are starting to stand up from their seats, hugging those in front of them. The teacher of his Religion and Music class is weeping, one of her eight arms rubbing the scaly skin under her eye, the other seven wrapping around the limbs of the students in the front rows. Someone at the back is singing their class song, soon joined by a few other voices. The girl next to him sniffs against his shoulder, mumbling something into his shirt. His arm around her back feels stiff as it always does when he is going through the puzzling motions of being human. When she lets go, there is a damp spot right where her face had been. Just like that, the 50th class of Anakt Garden comes to an end.
Somewhere in the room, he can hear the soft murmur of Sua’s voice. When he looks around, he sees Mizi’s glasses resting crookedly on her nose, which is slowly turning red. Sua gently rubs it with the sleeve of her left hand, always so attentive to Mizi’s grief. It’s good practice, he supposes. Under Ivan’s own sleeve, his wrist is itching. When he pulls it back, the silver letters glint in the fluorescent sunlight, reminiscent of the blade of a knife that hasn’t sunk all the way in. It’s funny, he thinks. It’s right in front of him. He knows it will get him one day.
It has only been a few months, but Ivan still isn’t used to the weight of his own name on his skin. He is always a little startled when he becomes aware of its presence. He flicks his wrist a couple of times, trying to throw it off. Maybe it's something he learned in the slums, where the children always had to hold their breath in the darkness, waiting for the footsteps to go away. He does not like to be faced with the obvious proof of his own existence.
Besides, in that life, there was no need for something as permanent as names. No one lived long enough to be known. When Unsha had first found him and called him that word, it had felt as heavy as a life sentence. In a way, it was fitting. But it never truly felt his, not until—
“Ivan,” he hears from behind him. When he turns, he finds Till looking back at him.
***
Till,
Were you always called that? Did you ever have a different name? You never told me where you were before. But I guess I never told you either. If I told you, I think you would have cried. Or worse, you would have felt sorry for me. Would you have given me your pencil willingly?
Don’t be an idiot. Don’t forget who gave you that bloody nose when you were eight. I don’t want anything from you if it comes so easily.
***
In the first few days of meeting Till, Ivan had a hard time meeting his eyes. He has always found the human compulsion to maintain eye contact rather strange. It is as if humans need to touch in as many ways as possible. It’s not enough to brush hands. The eyes must also meet.
But Till’s eyes were even stranger, especially back then. They were wide and earnest in a way that never made sense. A riddle. A discrepancy. The terrors of the world passed through them, and yet, they stayed as bright as ever. Till’s eyes were always seeking faraway dreams: The trees that only existed in stories. Mizi’s smile. They were so easily awed: When Ivan rubbed stones together to create a spark. When Mizi smiled. Till’s eyes were quick to look away, flustered at the slightest hint of reciprocation, but they always found their way back, even if it was Ivan on the other side.
In the grand scheme of the universe, Ivan’s existence was supposed to be a mere blip, a stain that would fade with time. But all those years ago, Till’s gaze had pinned him to the ground, like a robot fly caught in a sticky trap, suddenly all too aware of its own body. It would be so much simpler if Till had never looked. But Till had looked. So many times. He had peered at Ivan up and close as if he were one of the flowers Till always leaned down to nuzzle.
In fact, Till is looking at him now, eyebrows raised. When they were younger, Till would scowl every time Ivan made a face he did not understand. Now, he only looks curious. For a second, Ivan wonders if he has given up and then berates himself for being so egotistical.
Till holds his arm out. In his fingers, there’s a blank piece of paper. Ivan glances at it and then looks back at him.
“What?” Till scoffs, twisting away, slightly. Ivan wants to pinch under his ribs just to see him squirm. “Everyone’s doing it. Unless you think you’re too good for it or something.”
Ivan used to be fluent in Till’s language. You can watch me draw, but don’t sit too close, Till would say, when they were little, even as he was already scooting aside to make space. You ate mine last time, so I got you an extra, he would say, pushing the plate with red jelly toward Ivan. They said we had to perform this song in pairs, and you already read all my lyrics over my shoulder even when I tell you not to, he would say, biting the inside of his cheek, placing wrinkled pages on the desk, still folded at the sides so no one else could see. Ivan, about last night, I wanted to say—
But those days are long gone. Today, there is no time for fistfights or apologies. Today, there are graduation letters to write and the last batch of physicals to sit through. Then, there will be the last lunch and an evening weighed with goodbyes. When tomorrow comes, there will be no turning back. There will only be the future or what remains of it. The only way to make any of this easier is to not linger too long.
But because Ivan is as flawed as they come, he reaches out and touches the edges of the paper. For a moment, they are connected by this page, empty of any possibilities. They could fill it with whatever they want.
As always, he chooses the silence. “I’ll do it. After all, you came all the way here to ask for it,” he says, grinning. He pretends not to see the way Till’s eyes widen before they narrow again.
If Ivan were a stupider man, he would have thought himself special. But Till’s gaze is as generous as the light. It falls over everything without discrimination.
Ivan is no exception.
***
Till,
It’s simple physics. When you strike one stone against another, the particles inside them start to interact. Did you know that everything is made up of the same particles? Even the stars. Even us.
If you keep rubbing the particles together, they will slowly start to heat up. That’s what causes the fire.
Of course, I didn't understand any of this until I came here. Back then, it was only a way to keep warm.
See? It’s not much of a magic trick once you know how it’s done.
***
Because Ivan does not quite know how to be human, he reads.
In the slums, knowledge was a luxury. In Ivan's first memories, he could only feel the hunger inside his belly and cold under his toes. Often, humans will primarily rely on their sense of vision when describing something, but all Ivan remembers is absolute darkness. He didn’t know how many children were in that room. Every day, the factory doors would open, and more of them would crawl out. It would keep getting crowded until there was that familiar stench and they all knew there was room for one more.
Ivan remembers elbows pushed against his ribs. He remembers waking up with someone's hair in his mouth. Before they knew about the fire, that was the only way to share heat. In the slums, the children exchanged tips like stolen candy. Here was the best spot to crouch under, when the segyein did their timely raids. Here was where the supply trucks passed, often dropping the ingredients that had gone a little stale. Here was how you could search for the frozen pieces of gravel and then lick them up, like a delicacy. The first time Ivan had rubbed two pebbles together and felt the tiniest flame between his fingers, he understood why humanity had run itself to the ground. If this was how the first man to discover fire felt, then it was no wonder that the thirst for more had never left any of their bones.
In Unsha's library, Ivan used to stand on his tiptoes to grab every book within his reach and trace the history of humanity all the way to that first spark. Perhaps that is why he has never really believed in the divine: He has read about the humans who toiled day after day to craft wheels out of bare rock. He has read about the humans who sharpened the edges of stones to carve their own faces into cave walls. He has read about the humans who made up words just so they could write love poems for each other. Invention is the bane of human existence. How can any of this be the work of a higher being? It has always been human. All of it.
In the hands of a more competent person, this knowledge might have been something useful. But Ivan has always lacked imagination. He observes the world and tries to memorize its patterns, but anything he imitates always pales in comparison. He cannot create anything from scratch. He can only press his ear against the pages, trying to pick up on the whistle of the trains passing by and the chatter of the people flooding past the station gates. He can only squint at the sweat on their eyebrows, their flushed cheeks, and their hands holding onto each other even when they aren’t attempting to make a grand escape. He can only sniff the faint scent of mint clinging to their shirts, the mud soaking their pants, and the dog poo under their shoes. But when he closes his eyes, it all goes black.
Ivan tries to savor the pieces of the past as much as he can, but he has no compulsion to bring them back to life. They would never survive in this world, anyway. It is why the flowers will never be just flowers to him. He will never be able to weave them into crowns. Ivan cannot see beyond his own truths.
Till has always been different. Till used to come to him, sketchbook clutched in bruised fingers. Tell me, he would say, pencil sharpened like a threat. But if anyone could take something capable of cutting skin and use it to make beautiful things, it was Till. What you were talking about last time. The things that can fly. Ivan would hum, counting to ten in his head because he knew it would make Till clench his jaw. The birds? He would eventually say after he had been shoved twice. What about them? Till would try to keep gritting his teeth, only to give up and grin because he was always so horribly easy to please. Yes! The birds. How did they, you know—and Ivan would have to look away here because Till’s eyes would be so wide and green and Ivan would have to live his life ten times over before he knew how to be on the other end.
Well, they had these special kinds of limbs attached to them. Like fish fins? But not really. These limbs were covered by a soft layer of skin that helped the birds stay afloat in the sky. Because Ivan’s curiosity never trespassed the boundaries of what was necessary, this description had always been enough for him. But Till would stomp his feet, leaning closer. Can you be a little clearer? How can skin help someone fly? He would demand, perhaps wanting an artist’s explanation, but all Ivan had were his books and nothing else. I think the author described them as these tiny protrusions—and Till would shove him again, saying, What the heck are protrusions? When Ivan looked at him, he would be frowning, even though Ivan had not even tried to make him do it this time.
Sixteen years apart, Till continues to be the one thing that escapes him.
But Till has always been stubborn. He has never let Ivan’s shortcomings come in the way of his ambition. Look, he would say, sighing. Leaning back against the tree, he would flip through half-drawn pages until he came across a blank one. Always so incredibly patient, even when he wasn’t. Was it something like this? And Till had nothing except the meager words Ivan had given him, but as Ivan watched, Till’s pencil would scratch new possibilities into the paper. The crooked wings of a bird. The rough, scaly skin of an elephant. The long ears of a rabbit. Under Till’s hands, the world bloomed anew. Under Till’s hands, history repeated itself.
It makes sense then that this is Ivan's becoming. On this page, there was once nothing except the absence of life itself. But Till’s hands, like god’s, like man’s, keep reinventing hope over and over again.
***
Till,
The birds died first. It makes sense since they were the closest to freedom. The elephants were quite imposing. Noble, even. But even they had to succumb to the tide. The rabbits never stood a chance.
And the dogs—
Well. You wouldn’t have liked them at all.
***
Ivan has always found them to be rather pitiful creatures. What was the purpose of an existence spent lying at someone else’s feet? A desperate life consisting of licking leftovers and peeing all over the surroundings just to leave a mark on the world? It was pathetic to roam around the house with a noose around the neck bearing your name. It was pathetic to run up to the one responsible for your suffering and lick their face in gratitude.
In one of the books on the topmost shelves, Ivan had read about an old experiment where dogs were conditioned to associate the sound of a bell with food. Every time they heard the bell ring, they would salivate. Always expecting. Always waiting.
But this is a fate none of them have been able to escape. Humans aren’t that different, really. Ivan has watched Sua puff her cheeks and stick out her tongue every time she catches Mizi’s eye across the room during singing lessons, as if she cannot help softening every part of her face at the sight of her. Ivan has watched Mizi wade out of the river, clutching a robot fish in her armpits, laughing as she turns to find Sua on the bank, as if every piece of her happiness must be Sua’s, too. Ivan has watched Till peek around the tree trunk, swollen eyes crinkling at the corners, laugh lines cutting through the evidence of blunt force trauma as he looks at the two of them, as if he never even considered crossing the distance. As if he has always been content with any scraps of affection that come his way.
Ivan doesn’t hold it against any of them. It’s classical conditioning, after all. Throw a dog a bone, and he will be yours forever. Everything has its own stimulus, and if there’s a stimulus, a response is inevitable. Of course, it’s a little more complicated in a world like theirs. Sometimes, you may have to lie to your dog. Sometimes, you may have to tell your dog that you will always be there to look after him. Sometimes, you may have to throw the ball so far that it can’t ever be found, so your dog gets used to the feeling of loss. Surely, it would be kinder to put him to sleep. But humans have always been selfish. They will love a thing to its very bones, even if they cannot take responsibility for it forever.
It’s hard to tell what the dog might be feeling. In the end, being picked up from the streets and knowing the warmth of a lap, if only for a fraction of time, might just be worth everything else. A dog has to survive somehow, doesn’t he? It is only natural that he would crave any form of tenderness. If the sight of Mizi’s pink hair is what keeps Till going, then isn’t that just how the world works? There are worse reasons to be obedient.
And if Ivan’s mouth waters every time Till calls out to him, then, well.
He has never claimed to be any different.
***
Till,
She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know any of it. Isn’t that funny? Did you even realize?
***
Ivan can still feel that heaviness against his chest. Back when they still had more those late afternoons, when Mizi would flop down onto the grass with a sigh, her head lolling onto his shoulder. Back when everything still had a little bit of weight: the pink hair spilling over his shirt, unsettled by the slightest breeze, or the chin drooling over his heart, the world’s most blameless stake, driving in. Even his own fingers, forever suspended in the air, trying to mimic the memory of someone else's fingers, only to end up twitching helplessly, like a failing heartbeat. Back when the silence of the garden would not let him escape the thudding inside his ears or the soft snores holding him down, the undeniable evidence of being alive. When they stood up, inevitably, they would leave behind an impression on the grass, in the shape of their bodies.
I wonder what it would be like if we won, Mizi would say when she woke up, stretching her arms and blinking slowly, only to give in and close her eyes. But even if we didn’t, we would see each other again, right? In that place. And we would look like this again! Even if we don’t get to meet before the rounds begin, even if it all ends too soon, it’s nice to know that I might be able to see Sua in her uniform again.
If Ivan were a better person, he would have closed his fists and crushed those hopes, the way humans once crushed creatures much smaller than themselves. It would have been a cruelty, surely, but it would have been a necessary one. If Ivan were a better person, he wouldn’t have kept Mizi’s words safe inside his grasp, only to bring them out when he found Sua reading quietly in the corner of the library. If Ivan were a better person, he wouldn’t have stood in front of her, like a cat at the doorstep with a dead rodent in its mouth, saying, Look what I have for you. Why do you look horrified? Isn’t this what you wanted? If Ivan were a better person, he would have gotten up and found Till in the next moment and told him the words he should have said a long time ago: Here. You can have your pencil back.
But because Ivan was what he was—a bastard, half-a-person, a thief hoarding stationary like little truths, only to return them easily like lies—he only laid there, humming, hand patting Mizi’s head.
Always watching, always in the know.
Changing nothing at all.
***
Till,
Have you ever thought about what happens after? When they told us to imagine the Great Anakt, you always kept your eyes open. I could never figure out what you were seeing. And then it was too late to ask.
You told me once that you didn’t believe in god, but I don’t think you believe in nothing, either. I have seen the way you look at the flowers.
You’re stupid. You always have been.
What does that place look like for you? You probably think there will be real trees. And Mizi. And all the other kids. Or maybe you don’t. You always surprise me.
Am I there, too?
***
He has never given it a lot of thought. It’s not like he fears death. Death is familiar. In those dark streets where even hope had no ground to stand on, death was a constant. A body folded over on the pavement. Another in the tunnels. Someday, on that stage, when death comes for him, it will feel like an old habit. Something you never really forget once you get the hang of it, like swimming or riding a bicycle. At least, the kind of bicycles they could ride in the garden.
It’s why Ivan doesn’t believe in anything that comes after. You realize that there is nothing as permanent as death when you see a body start to eat itself after three days of lying out in the open. What can he even believe in? There are no gods in the slums, where the children hold their mouths open under the drains just to catch a little bit of spillage. If there is even a Great Anakt, it does not exist for everyone.
In the old days, humans believed in benevolent gods. They folded their hands and begged those gods to save them. They wanted to be good, they wanted to fall into the abyss of divine judgment and come out on the other side, forgiven. He catches glimpses of that faith every time he sees Mizi and Sua sing together, fingers intertwined, like a cat’s cradle. If there is anything soft in this garden, it exists right there, between their bodies.
“When Sua sings, I feel like the universe is beginning, all over again,” Mizi says, as they sit on the floor outside the testing rooms, waiting for Sua and Till to finish their final physicals. As always, Mizi’s eyes are trained toward the door Sua disappeared behind, as if all she can do in Sua’s absence is wait for her to appear again. It is almost ironic, the ways in which she and Ivan could have been similar, if only they weren’t so undeniably different.
“I know it’s not fair because we have all been waiting for the competition,” she continues, uncrossing her legs, stretching them out in front of her, “but I almost wish time would stop just so I could keep listening to her a little longer.”
Pressing back against the white wall, she tilts her head toward him. Ivan braces himself for one of her bright smiles, but her lips only twitch slightly, before they droop again. Mizi comes from the deep sea, but she could not be any more of the opposite: What appears on the surface is what lies inside. There is only one other person who is as sincere. Ivan has never known how to handle him, either.
In the past, Ivan often found Mizi's smiles a little hard to bear. Perhaps it was because the gesture never quite felt right around his own mouth. He used to peer into puddles, pulling at his own cheeks, until he figured out how to stretch them the required amount. Of course, the smile correction treatments at the vet helped too. Even then, his smiles always came out sloppy, like bad handwriting. Incomprehensible. Because his lips had to be repeatedly pried apart by machines for them to finally develop the habit, it was oddly discomforting to see the same gesture appear on Mizi's face so naturally. It was even more discomforting to realize that it was genuine.
Maybe that is why, even after all these years, Ivan has remained skeptical of the depth of emotion behind it. Mizi, in her obliviousness, has been somewhat of a respite for the other children, but her heartfelt laughter can sometimes be painful, too. She shines thoroughly, in a way this world has never allowed. To be exposed to that light and then have to return to the darkened rooms where they cut you open to see what is under your skin is a cruel dichotomy. Time and time again, Ivan has wondered how long this can go on for. He is sure that Sua has spent endless nights wondering the same.
Still, as he watches Mizi wilt outside the door behind which Sua is likely being pierced by a syringe, Ivan considers that maybe, he has been a little unfair. After all, Mizi never asked for this. One day, when she finally understands, won't she think back to every child who chased her around the trees during playtime or splashed water at her in the river? If she breaks, won't they all be a little responsible for it? Even if not all of them had realized, surely, they were still somewhat guilty of finding an escape in her happiness? Ivan himself may not have ever given into the guiles of pipe dreams, but he has let her tie his hair in braids. Even if he isn't sure if he feels sorry, aren't his hands also dirty?
Besides, who can predict how things will turn out? It is not as if Mizi has lived her life with her eyes fully closed. Ivan suspects that her guardian may not have signed off on the more extreme experimentations, but that doesn't mean that she was exempt from everything else. She also got the tubes pushed into her veins and sat through each letter being branded on her arm. Once, they had her go through a dance routine blindfolded. For every step she missed, a little zap of electricity was sent up her ankles. It was like a game, she told him later, soaking her burnt feet in the river. I only got a C+, but I'll do better next time! Back then, he had marveled at her ability to keep grinning cluelessly, even through the pain. Now, he wonders if it was a show of strength.
Perhaps Mizi wouldn't shatter. Perhaps she would be the most resilient of them all. Ivan thinks of the Mizi who would reach out to hold Sua's hand even when her nose was still running in the aftermath of their little argument. He thinks of the Mizi who would put her hands on her waist and say, I know you say a lot of things I don't understand, but that wasn't very nice. But I forgive you because you are my friend, Ivan. He thinks of the Mizi who would ask Till to sit next to her in class even when he always darted out of his seat the moment the bell rang. It makes Ivan feel a little uneasy, but he wonders if this kindness can one day transform into perseverance. It is not the way he learned to survive, but Ivan has been wrong about a few other things.
“I am sure Sua feels the same way,” Ivan tells her, smiling, tooth sticking out from the side of his mouth like a lie. “I am sure she also wants to be with you as long as possible.”
Mizi hums. She looks down at her hands, then clasps them in front of chest, a gesture of plea and prayer. “You're right. If this is all we get, then I should try to make the most of it instead of moping around. Sua deserves to have a good final day!”
When the door starts to creak open, Ivan gets to see Mizi's eyes shift from up close. As Sua steps outside slowly, rubbing her neck and wincing, Mizi bounds up to her. She tucks a strand of Sua's hair behind her ear, then pulls her face into her own shoulder. Ivan barely catches Sua's wounded expression before she hides it in the collar of Mizi's uniform. It must have been a truly rough session if she is letting him be a witness to this. Or perhaps she no longer cares. As Sua sways on her feet, Mizi keeps her arms around her. Even if I fall asleep for infinity, don't leave my side, she sings, burying her nose in Sua's hair. Ivan wonders how Sua can stand to be so obviously worshipped even when she is shaking.
(Once, Till had pressed his swollen face into Ivan's chest. Once, Ivan's hands had not known what to do with themselves, but they wrapped around Till's waist anyway. Once, Ivan had prayed in the only way he had known, fingers grazing Till's bruises. Cheer up, he had said, cheer up, cheer up, cheer up—)
As a bystander, Ivan will never truly be privy to such matters of the heart. After all, this has never been his place in the world. And yet, as he looks, he questions if all of this would truly collapse the minute they step on stage. Have they been underestimating a thing that is older than this universe? Ivan wonders if Sua has ever considered being so ardently loved even in the aftermath.
Here is a girl who is nothing like god. Here is an altar another girl has built with her bare hands.
In this moment, as hollow as he has always been, Ivan believes that even if he were to tell Mizi every filthy little secret, her faith in Sua would remain just as unwavering.
As the other door opens, Ivan admits to himself once again: He does not understand how any of this feels.
***
Till,
Did you know that humans used to ask the gods for what they wanted? Did you know that they used to wish upon falling stars? Should I tell you what I would ask for?
Don’t cry laugh.
I hope I never see you again.
***
There are a few things Ivan considers to be universal truths. The fickleness of the human heart. The inevitability of death. The futility of his own existence. Nothing that demands this extent of devotion.
Of course, there is Till.
But Ivan cannot think of Till as an infallible being, when every time he laughs, the scrape on his cheek shifts a little higher, and he seems frighteningly ephemeral, like the flowers, the real flowers that grow somewhere much kinder than here. Ivan cannot believe in him like man once believed in god because Ivan is barely a man himself, the farthest thing from good. He has never been able to ask for something he knows he is incapable of receiving.
If humans were once made from the gods, then surely, Ivan is made of something else entirely.
That is why he can only lick the blood off Till’s cheek. He can only crawl on all fours to take a closer look at Till’s sleeping face. He can only sit by the door, waiting for his name to be called, a name that had never truly belonged to him until the moment Till screamed every syllable with so much conviction. He can only run after the things Till carelessly drops—insults, smiles, pencil shavings—and bring them back between his teeth. He wants to chew on the bones of anything that has already been inside Till’s mouth.
If Till tries to pat his head, Ivan might bite him. But if Till disappears, Ivan would sniff him out and follow him to whichever corner of the world he had ended up in.
He thinks of the dogs in the books. He thinks of the last dog on Earth still waiting for the last man.
If Ivan cannot believe in Till the way humans once believed in gods, then his faith must be similar to a dog’s. Like a lowly creature with nowhere else to go, he believes in Till’s capacity to be falteringly human.
***
Till,
You'll need both your hands for this. First use the thumb and index finger of one hand to feel along the band. Near the back of the neck, you should feel two slight bumps. One on the top and one on the bottom. It may take a few minutes, but you will find them. Put your fingers against the bumps and press hard. Remember the time we bet on which one of us could stand being pinched longer? Yes, you have to do it that hard.
When you hear a click, a section of the band will start to lift up. Use your other hand to pull it apart. The collar will come loose.
I don't know if this will work if you try it on yourself. I have only done it for you. But you're not going to try anyway, right?
This is the last thing, then. Do with it what you will.
***
At lunch, no one speaks.
Ivan swirls his spoon around the bowl. Today’s soup is a murky shade of green; when he stirs too hard, hazy clouds disperse along the edges. Perhaps it’s made from one of the special varieties of vegetables that come from afar. All their meals are intended to contain the required nutritional value, but the caretakers usually grow most of their stocks here itself. They must have been feeling pretty sentimental to go out of their way.
There are a few things that Ivan is truly grateful for, and one of them is the rarity of meat in the garden. Ivan suspects it's because of the nature of it. There clearly isn’t a low supply, but there may be repercussions of feeding it to them. Ivan has seen a few kids in the slums fall sick as a result. While he feels indifferent to the nitty gritty aspects of survival, he isn’t interested in reliving all of them.
Most days, he prefers skipping the hassle of lunch together. Especially when Till isn’t allowed to be there.
Today is not like other days. Ivan feels as if he is a child again, because when he moves his leg, his knee bumps into Till’s. They haven’t sat this close in a long time. Well, that isn’t exactly true—Ivan looks for him in every crowded room, and the seat beside Till is almost always vacant. But when Ivan jabs the gash on his cheek, Till’s eyes shift away from him, flighty. Every time, his shoulders remain stiff, but he refuses to move away. It reminds Ivan of the day Till accidentally had torn off a page of his Old World Atlas and spent the whole afternoon hiding the book behind his back. When Ivan had finally stolen it back from him, he found a loose page with half-drawn continents tucked in between. He remembers feeling the same discomfort back then.
Ivan doesn’t like when Till looks at him like he owes him anything. When he leaves this garden tomorrow, he doesn’t want to leave behind any loose ends.
This afternoon, he keeps his hands to himself. In front of him, Mizi’s hair is dipping into her soup. Her bowl is almost empty, but she keeps slurping from her spoon, trying to prolong the inevitable. Beside her, Sua picks at her bread, shreds falling around. She has never been a big eater, but today seems even worse than usual. Ivan is struck by the image of her younger self, wearing enough ruffles to drown in, nibbling at her food so as to not mess up the make-up on her face. One time, as Ivan was passing by the lobby, he overheard her guardian yell at her for having a crumb on her chin.
His fingers twitch, overtaken by the urge to ruffle her hair, so she’ll scowl at him. It’s milder than what he feels with Till, but it still bothers him to see her empty gaze. Is this how he looks, too? He doesn’t want to grant either of them mercy.
For once, Till isn’t flushed red at the opportunity to sit this close to Mizi. He keeps his head down, so he never sees her purse her lips as taps on her bowl with her spoon. It’s fitting he supposes: Till will always remember Mizi at her best. He doesn’t have to see her crumble like the rest of them.
Sitting here among them, Ivan is all too aware of the ways in which people change and the ways in which they never do. In a couple of months, they will all be dressed in their most flattering outfits and sent up on the stage, but these will still be the children he has lain under the sun with sweaty feet propped up on the grass. These will still be the children he has seen with the fever patches and muddied uniforms, soaked to the bones in the river, laughing. There is not a lot tying him to this world, but if there is anything, it is right here at this table.
“Well,” Mizi says, always the bravest one of them, “this is it, huh? What are you guys doing for the rest of the day?”
Sua puts the remains of her bread down. “I have to go to the groomer’s to cut my hair. Mother wants it to be shorter for the auditions.”
“It already looks very pretty.” Mizi reaches out, twirling a strand around her finger. Sua’s lips press together for a second, before they soften. “But whatever you do with it, I am sure it will only look even prettier.”
“I agree,” Ivan says, if only to make Sua glance at him. Unfortunately, she doesn’t bite. “I have to return a few books to the library, and then I have free time. I might go and stargaze, if anyone wants to join.”
“Lucky,” Mizi bemoans. Sua’s hair slips out of her grasp. “I have a make-up assignment to submit. I should have finished it last night, but I was so tired after stamina training!”
“Stupid. I told you to ask me for help if you needed it.”
“I didn’t want to bother you!” Mizi replies, leaning forward on her elbow. “Besides, even you were really tired after all the interviews, Sua!”
“I would have still helped you!”
“I know, and that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“I could have helped too,” Ivan says, willing his mouth to stretch a little further. Conversations like these call for a wider smile. “Besides, I am sure Sua just doesn’t want you keeping things from her. After all, doesn’t she tell you everything?”
Purple eyes finally widen. There it is, Ivan thinks, as Sua turns that familiar glare toward him. This is how you should look at me. Don’t think that you ever get to forget.
“They’re talking in riddles again, Till,” Mizi says, but Ivan sees her put her hand on Sua’s back. Someday, when Mizi sees the whole picture, she will turn back to this moment and hate him with all she has. Ivan wonders if he will still be there to see it.
For a few seconds, there is only silence.
“Till?” Mizi repeats. Even Sua pauses and looks to Ivan’s side, because it’s not usual for Till to not respond when Mizi calls for him. Sure, it might not be a very coherent response, but he does try his best.
In any other circumstance, Ivan would have turned too, always eager to note all the ways in which Till’s face scrunches and relaxes, like a magician’s trick. It’s Ivan’s favorite pastime. But even he has his limits. He can stamp on every flower, except this. A Till who withers is a Till he can only take in in little measures.
Still, he can’t help sneaking a glance.
Hunched in his chair, Till seems to be staring at his own open palms. Beside them, his bread lies untouched. When Mizi calls his name again, he flinches and jerks his head up.
“Huh?” Till says, blinking rapidly. “What? What are you all talking about?”
“Mizi asked us what we were doing after this,” Ivan says, resting his chin on his hand, finally looking at him properly. Till’s eyes are slightly red, he realizes. Maybe he will cry soon. Ivan would lap up every drop, if he could. “Do keep up, Till. It’s rude to ignore a girl, you know.”
“I wasn’t ignoring her, you bastard,” Till squawks, trying to lower his voice at the end. It’s cute, the way he still tries not to curse around Mizi, but it is an ineffective technique when Ivan is present in the same room. Ivan’s heart beats faster, triumphed at how easily he draws out Till’s anger. There are not a lot of things that he has a right to, but this, this has always been his.
If Ivan had a better imagination, he might have been able to pretend that time has turned back. Like maybe if he leans on Till’s shoulder and asks him to share his bread with him, Till will roll his eyes and then give him the bigger half.
But there is nowhere else to go. The only way is forward.
“S-Sorry, Mizi,” Till says. He exhales, quietly. Ivan finds himself licking his own lips. If Till’s anger is delicious, then his gentleness is too, especially when it isn’t directed at him. It is why he has always been fascinated by Till’s eyes when they are focused on Mizi’s shadow, but he never knows what to do when they find his own. It’s just like Till to bend every law of the universe as if it’s nothing, nothing at all. “I have instrument lessons in a bit. Urak wants me to get extra practice while I can.”
Your guardian is stupid, Ivan would say, if he thought Till might believe him. How many times has he watched Till’s fluttering fingers without his guitar, pulling notes out of thin air? There is no sound up in space, Ivan has read, but he is sure that if they ever went up there, Till’s fingers would still produce the most breathtaking melodies. If Ivan ever considered his life to have any value, he would place it in those hands.
“I’m also going to head over to the classrooms!” Mizi says, standing up. “Want to walk together?”
Till nods. “S-Sure.”
He gets up, pushing his half-full bowl away from him. His knuckles almost brush against Ivan’s, missing by an inch. In another life, perhaps they would have passed by each other, just like that.
Neither him nor Mizi take another step. It dawns on Ivan that this is the last time the four of them will ever be together like this. Earlier, as Ivan had walked to the dining hall, he had seen two of his classmates with their faces close together under a tree. Did this moment call for something similar? Should there be a little more fanfare? In his books, the characters always proclaim that their meeting was fated, but none of them were brought into each other’s lives in glass cages. When Mizi first stumbled upon Sua singing to herself, when Till first tried to give Ivan a tangled flower crown, there was no way they would have predicted that things would end up this way. If anything, isn’t their encounter the worst kind of coincidence?
What is the point of dwelling on it? If Ivan could do it all over again, would he really be capable of doing anything differently?
“The next time will be on the stage, won’t it?” Mizi says, reaching into the pockets of her uniforms. As she brings her hands out, she’s clutching onto a tiny bundle of flowers.
“Yes.” Curiously, it is Till who answers.
When Ivan looks up, he startles. For the second time today, Till’s eyes are fixated on him.
***
Till,
I lied. About your recorder. About your pencil. Even about all the chocolate you received on your birthday. But all that is in the past. I won’t take anything else that is rightfully yours.
This is really the last thing. It should be. It should be.
***
Mizi makes her way around the table, tucking a flower behind each of their ears. As always, she starts from Sua, delicately folding the stem along the curve of her ear, before pressing a kiss on her forehead. She lingers, as if she’s about to say something, before she shakes her head. Till tries to make it easy for her by leaning down, but it’s hard with the way he is trembling, a little. As he stands back upright, he looks a few years younger. Ivan can’t help but think of him banging his head up and down, screaming into a microphone, on a day like this a long time ago. Inside his ribs, something tightens.
When Mizi gets to Ivan, he does his best to hold still. The stem pokes his skin, but he bears with the reminder of it for now. “Ivan,” she whispers, keeping her head lowered. “I try not to step in between you and Sua, but please don’t say anything else to hurt her. Please be kind to her.”
There is a puff of breath against his cheek. Somehow, it feels a little chilling.
“Anyway, I was happy,” Mizi says, louder. She takes a step back, beaming. “I was happy to have spent this time with all of you. Thank you for everything.”
Ivan isn’t sure why, but he believes that he will always remember Mizi’s silhouette in this moment. There is something about the way she stands, shoulders a little burdened, but still set firmly. Ivan has always known this, but he is once again reminded that there is so much more to her than the people who love her. If something like the future exists, perhaps Mizi will be the one to see it.
Alas, there’s no way to know for sure. As Mizi turns her back to him, Ivan reaches for the flower and squashes it between his fingers. He slips the shards of glass in his pocket.
Meeting Till’s gaze right after brings forth a sense of déjà vu.
Ivan wonders if Till will indulge him a little. He stopped getting into fights with Till ever since he realized that he was getting bigger than him. He had not wanted to remind Till of others bigger than him who also hurt him. Still, he wouldn’t mind a little graze on chin as a keepsake.
However, Till only frowns. He raises his hand, but it is only to push something toward Ivan.
They have been here before. A long time ago, there were flowers between them. It’s different now, like most things are. When Ivan glances down, he finds a piece of bread, still covered in plastic.
“It’s too sweet,” he hears Till say. “You say a lot of shit for someone who has a horrible sweet tooth. But perhaps there is still hope, huh?”
Feeling something get stuck in his throat, Ivan attempts to swallow it down. The bread seems to blur a little. He must not have blinked for the last few seconds.
Despite himself, Ivan thinks of a younger Till with his hand outstretched. You like them, right? The stars? The real ones? I probably got them all wrong, but I tried to draw them the way you described them.
Always, always, Till is surprising him.
Ivan has only ever begged for Till’s anger. And yet, when he dares to look at him, Till’s eyes are a little damp.
It might be the shaking bridge effect. Till is likely misattributing the grief he feels about the situation in general to Ivan himself. He will realize this soon enough. But at least for now, it’s still Ivan who is partly responsible for the face he is making. Ivan has never seen anything like it before. He hopes that he never has to see it again.
“A prisoner’s last meal, huh?” Ivan tries, but his voice sounds a little shaky to his own ears.
Till huffs. “Like you would ever go down that easily.”
It should feel like a threat. For the life of him, Ivan doesn’t understand why it feels like a promise, instead.
As Till leaves with Mizi, Ivan wonders if he will tell her anything that truly matters. Ivan used to shove him in her direction. Show her one of your songs, he would say, then jump back when Till tried to flick his arm. But no matter how much Ivan prodded, Till stubbornly remained rooted to the spot. Back then, Ivan had guessed that maybe Till was afraid to truly reach for the things he wanted. Or that perhaps, he was like Ivan himself and had drawn the line on his own longings.
In the present, Ivan understands that this is no longer in his hands. He has to let Till be with his own regrets.
As Till leaves with Mizi, Ivan finds himself holding his breath. Perhaps it is a kind of masochism, but he has always found the sight of Till’s back a little comforting. This is Till at his most natural: going out into the world, untethered to anything else, free. This is Till at his most natural: doing what boys like him are allowed to do when they are not restrained by anyone else. Not even Ivan himself.
***
Till,
The stars were so bright, weren't they? I shouldn’t have taken your hand. I thought I knew what you wanted. It turns out I didn’t know anything at all.
***
When the dust settles, only Sua and him are left behind.
The first time Ivan saw Sua, she was sitting all by herself, just like this. He remembers her eyes, peeking over the heads of the other children. Her fingers, fiddling with her bonnet. Even her toes, wiggling against the floor. These days, it is a habit that only comes out around Mizi.
There had been something familiar about the way she had gripped her toys during enrichment activities, a little desperate. But when the caretakers took them out of her grasp, she never protested. She always let go so easily. Back then, Ivan had thought that he understood. He tried to sit next to her, so they could play next to each other in silence.
These days, he knows better. Perhaps it is Ivan who has never grown up, still envious of the child who received the present he wanted.
Even now, he feels compelled to have the upper hand.
“So, you’re really going through with it, huh?” He asks, folding his arms. “I must say I am a little surprised. Impressed, even.”
Sua doesn’t budge. She doesn’t even reach for her bread. She lets him stare at the flat line of her mouth and its unwillingness to retaliate.
She has always been the bigger person of the two of them.
Ivan is sure that if she could choose, she would have chosen not to be known by him. But here they are. If Ivan tries a little harder, he is sure that he could make her cry. If Sua tries a little harder, he is sure that she could pull out a part of him that might be capable of a similar unsettling emotion.
But they each stay on their side of the line.
“Alright, alright. I’ll stop here,” Ivan says, raising his hands. Sua’s face looks strangely small from here. In another life, maybe there would be a set of building blocks between them once again. In another, maybe two of them could have been friends. In this life, Ivan wonders if what Sua feels when Mizi plays in the snow is the same as what he feels when Till plays with the flowers. “All the best, Sua. I mean it.”
At least she has made a decision. Ivan has no such dreams of grandiose. If he has to be up against Till on the stage, he will simply go through with it like any other performance.
He unwraps the bread, the plastic crinkling in his hands. Just as he is about to take the first bite, he hears Sua shift in her seat.
“Don’t count on it,” she says, and it is perhaps the first thing she has said to him since they sat down for lunch. “Don't count on yourself being different.”
As Ivan chews, he finds that Till was right. The bread is too sweet.
***
Till,
Don’t listen to whatever Sua says. If you make it out alive, you don’t have to concern yourself with such trivial matters.
Live.
***
Ivan wonders what the historians will think of them. Till, the bumbling hero with a wooden sword, ready to lay down his life at a fair maiden's feet. Till, swinging at every dragon in sight but never daring to step on a single flower. Till, hands calloused and ruined, still carefully plucking at the strings of his instruments, defying the violence of his destiny with gentleness.
What will they make of Ivan himself? Will they find him tragic and mistake him as a sacrificial fool? But sacrifice implies that you have something worth giving up in the first place, and Ivan has not given up a single thing. Not when he removed Till’s collar. Not when he followed him back the night the entire sky fell apart. Ever since Ivan stepped foot into the garden, he has had no intention of chasing something as pointless as freedom, especially when it can so easily be taken away. Under those stars, the only thing he ran after was Till. Doesn't it make sense that the only reason he went back was Till, too? If the thing on the other end of the scales was something as fleeting as his own survival, it was hardly a fair exchange. Sacrifice is too gracious a word for it.
It is easy to mistake greed for desire. Ivan will always want more of what Till is capable of giving him. A fist to his chin. A nose pressed against his cheek. A yawn next to his ear. He has never desired more than that. There was never a need for it. He is not interested in going against the natural order of things.
If someone years from now were to call this doomed, he would tell them that it is only a matter of perspective. What is doomed about the choices he has made? He exchanged one kind of helplessness for another, if only to prolong his existence a little longer. He had not wanted to die on those streets, but why should that mean that he has to aim for victory? He has let life run through him like water runs through a broken jug. Nothing will remain inside him. The only regret he has will be buried with him.
What is doomed about time? Ivan has always known he would run out of it someday. He thinks of the two people under the tree, arms around each other, touching lips. If only we had more time, I would have—but what can time even change? If this were love, perhaps it would be terminal. It would fear each passing second. But because what Ivan feels is so much worse, it festers inside him, diseased. Chronic. No end in sight.
Whether he has a decade left with Till or only a day, he would still feel the same.
***
Till,
I sat too close on purpose. I ate all of your red jelly. I thought that the line in the third stanza comparing the softness of Mizi’s hair to edelweiss was cute, if not a little unoriginal.
We don’t have to talk about what happened. I don't even want anything anymore. Could I watch you draw one more time?
***
In the slums where most things were temporary, the stars had been immortal. Every night, Ivan had gazed up at them and found relief in the fact that they would outlast him. Of course, once Ivan had read through the first of the astronomy books in Unsha's library, he realized that the stars had always been dead. Even if they had not been dead, they surely died that night he and Till ran all the way to the edge of the universe.
He thinks of Pluto, suddenly cast aside from the planetary orbit. He thinks of a dog abandoned on the side of the road with its collar removed. He thinks of the terror of a sudden freedom he had never asked for.
As Ivan stretches across the grass, he realizes that it has been a long time since he has seen the real stars. The imitation sky mocks him, all its constellations tucked neatly in place. The segyein had never paid close attention to these details. For them, the stars had always been something to conquer. Toward the end, that's what they had been for the humans, too. But Ivan, all too aware of his own inadequacies, knows that they are the one he can never triumph over.
Here's Canis Major, the big dog, Ivan had said, dragging Till's finger over the distant shape of it. And there's Canis Minor, the small dog. They are always side by side.
Tomorrow, everything will change. Or rather, tomorrow, everything will be as it has always been.
Belatedly, Ivan wonders what kind of life he has led. There are those who have never known him beyond his lukewarm smiles. There are those who he has hurt in ways he will never be redeemed for. He isn't sure which part is more real. But he has rolled down the hill and gotten grass stains on his white pants. He once carried Mizi on his back and sprinted around the garden so long that when Sua found them, they had both sweat through their uniforms. He knows the spots under Till's arms where he should tickle if he wants to make Till laugh so hard he has to clutch his belly. Surely, that has to count for something. It has been a good run, has it not?
Ivan had spent his days unknowing of the ways of other humans until Till had held out a crown of flowers, an offer to step within the circle of life once and for all. It makes sense then that Ivan had crushed it with all he had.
He hears a faint rustle. He doesn’t have to look up to know whose feet are approaching.
Pavlov first noticed that his dogs began salivating when they heard the sound of his assistants’ footsteps. It was here that he got the idea to try out different stimuli, like the bell.
When Till settles down next to him, Ivan keeps quiet. It is just like Till to walk into the dark cave when he is afraid of the thing waiting for him on the other end. Till has always been dangerous. The first time he had stood close to the wagyein, he clenched his fists and glared at each of its three faces. Yet, as the years passed, he had learned to hold the brush tightly in his fingers and scrape the plaque off its pointed teeth.
A boy who can be kind even to monsters is an unstoppable force that can move even the most immovable of objects.
But Ivan has always been content in his state of inertia. So, he doesn't say anything, even when he hears the familiar scratch of pencil against paper. He doesn't ask what Till is trying to immortalize. His 0.5mm-lead heart can only try to memorize each stroke. Later, in the solitude of his room, he will try recreating them with his uncoordinated fingers.
For now, he only lays there, once again the boy held off the edge of the roof by a sliver of his shirt, unable to do anything but gape at the radiance before him. For now, the two of them keep existing next to each other, like the lines Till draws, sometimes meeting, sometimes parting forever.
When dawn breaks, it is Till who leaves first. Ivan turns his head to the side, feeling his fringes stick to his forehead after hours of being out in the open. Inside his chest, a child warms his hands against a feeble fire, shaggy hair all over his face.
At the edge of the clearing, Till pauses.
“I'll see you there,” he says, without turning around. His voice is hoarse after a night of unspoken words. “You better make it.”
Ivan is certain that Till will pass every round of the auditions, even if the segyein try to make it seem otherwise. When they were younger, they would often settle petty arguments with a round of rock-paper-scissors, and Till invented new moves to ensure his victory time and time again. Ivan is certain that as long as there is a way to win, Till will find it.
Ivan feels oddly touched to be on the other side of the same faith. Within his mouth, his bad tooth aches.
Till, he imagines saying, the flowers have cameras in them. Isn't it ironic? The things you love the most have always been the things you hate the most. That's the way it is with most things. Aren't you glad I never told you the truth?
But Ivan could never say that. Whatever dredges of kindness Ivan can manage to gather inside himself, he will always try to give to Till.
“Till,” he says instead, looking at the boy who will outlive the stars, even if he doesn't know it yet. “Good luck.”
Till doesn't look back, but he stays where he is. Ivan's right hand feels a little empty at his side.
For a moment, there are sixteen years between them. An infinity in dog years.
Eventually, Till leaves. As always, Ivan follows.
***
Till,
Saying goodbye in this way makes me realize that time really has flown so quickly.
If I had known this sooner, I would have gotten closer to you. Perhaps then i wouldn't have to regret so much.
I hope you will remember me.