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There are few places where Ivan has felt respite.
Somehow, the day he was caught, dangling off a building, he had felt a stillness. His stomach was full for the first time in weeks, and having spent all his time hidden in the sewer tunnels, he was only just learning that light like the twinkling dots overhead existed: blazing through the sky and entirely unreachable. He wondered if that’s what he would become next.
But then, he was cuffed and stuffed into a box, sold to the highest bidder, and put under a projecting screen. Needles, surveillance, constant tests, and a growing pile of masks to make him into a misshapen caricature of the other children. There, when alone, Ivan found a lurid light in the collared Wegyien’s eyes, red like his, its glistening teeth scraping its own gums raw in a way Ivan understood. Running his hand against its scute, pressing into its mouth, cheek wet against its tongue, and arm hugging its canine, Ivan thought it only let him in because it recognized vermin kin.
Eventually, he forced himself out and from underneath the projecting screen, not for the stars, but for a brighter, more condensed light, one that pours in all directions, that fills his lungs in place of air, one that sought to be free, so Ivan set it free.
At the end of their journey, it’s hard to make out much in the dim tunnel, but he stares up at a familiar boy, older and taller than he is, around sixteen years of age, most likely. Recognition has yet to flash on his face, but they’ve met before.
Ivan is exhausted, and his practiced syllables don’t come out the way they’re supposed to when he says, “You said I can come here.” Just then, something shifts behind him. He turns to his favorite pair of shiny green eyes, brimming with tears.
When a moving vehicle’s light passes from the overhead gaps in the sewer, through which Ivan can make out distant meteors, it illuminates their figures, covered in dirt and small bruises from tussling half the way here. The air is heavy and moist against his skin, and it makes him think back to the Wegyien’s tongue. Their small hands are tightly clasped together, and he didn’t know that light could burn so hot against his skin. He smiles up as even and perfected as possible, tooth pressed into his bottom lip. It doesn’t translate. The older boy scrunches up his nose.
It’s been five or so years since they crossed paths. Ivan had even considered joining, but he hadn’t had much time to think it over. It doesn’t matter now. Clasping Till’s hand tighter, Ivan thinks that he gets to have his cake and eat it too, even if that cake is battered, and he’s only allowed a morsel. His younger years hadn’t taught him to pilfer for nothing.
After a few minutes, the older boy gives in, and Ivan and Till are ushered towards the camp’s makeshift pediatrician, who notes that the two of them are sharp, Ivan cognitively and Till with his motor skills; this determines the kind of activities their personalized training will consist of once they’re of age. They both speak fine, though they note that Ivan has a speech delay and an addental lisp.
Back in ANAKT, they always got inspected in separate rooms. Here, out of the corner of his eyes, Ivan watches Till. His body is littered with bruises deep enough to dent and cuts in the shape of Sygien claws. It’s unpleasant to see when the tests show the myriad of drugs that have yet to wear out of his system.
While Ivan is not the same malnourished kid from the slums, he’s unfortunately yet to show any bulk. On the other hand, Till manages to be worse off. “Chiselled twigs for bones,” is what Isaac –the older boy– says. Till’s sporadic outbursts don’t help his case as a recruit either.
Ivan is aware that people are much like disposable items, and whoever looks to take more than they give has no place, whether that be in the slums, ANAKT, or now, where he stands, in the rebel camp’s clinic, so he tugs at the hem of Isaac’s shirt and says, “It’s okay. I’ll be useful enough for the both of us,” before going back to prod at Till who socks him on the head in return.
From there on, the rebels welcome them, though they’re sometimes treated with varying degrees of caution and wonder. What’s it like? You’ve seen the Sygien up close. Can you speak how they do?
Ivan answers the other kids’ questions the best he can, but they never seem to like what he says. When they distance themselves, it’s nothing new or of note. The adults are easier to deal with anyway, similar to the robo-guardians that roamed their dorm halls. Every now and then, he can even get them to give him and Till extra food.
Ivan keeps his promise to Isaac. His life has always revolved around precise routine, and that doesn’t change now. Like clockwork, he wakes up at the same time everyday, exercises, reads, and flits about from one corner to the other, helping around. He’s already memorized a few maps and even drew them new ones of ANAKT’s layout as well as wrote them a list of the current biggest investors in Alien Stage. He’s been quite lucky in some ways, to have had Unsha, a well-known underground figure, for a guardian. He also expands his knowledge in medicine and cooking, though in practice, he’s not any good.
On the other hand, Till is hard to catch. He skitters away and into hiding the way bugs do, or the low-level aliens which hide in the fissures between street cement. It’s like a long-winded game of hide-and-seek. Ivan, of course, always wins. Till is predictable in his hiding places: cluttered corners with just enough light for him to be able to write and draw.
“Hey! Get off! I said get off!” Till’s squeals are a delight.
Ivan adjusts himself from where he’s sat on top of Till, flat down on his stomach and making awkward attempts at throwing punches. Some land against Ivan’s thighs. Maybe one of them will bruise. He hopes several.
In one hand, he inspects the lumpy pieces of sharpened charcoal that Till was using. In the other are the scraps of paper that Till’s gathered from around the base, old documents and notes filled to the brim on both sides. His drawings litter the small empty spaces between a long paragraph and the next.
Ivan hums. “You’re still drawing Mizi?” Till flinches beneath him.
Slowly, he says, “So what?”
“It’s cute. You even drew her with her glasses. The sparkles are a bit much but…” This makes him lash out again. Ivan can’t see Till’s face, but his nape and the tips of his ears are flushed. Ivan pulls on one of Till’s ears and gets up, pocketing a piece of charcoal.
A few weeks in, Till finds an abandoned recorder that he tunes and then plays for the other kids, who brighten up like lightbulbs at the music. Their compliments turn him red, pink, and a whole array of pretty colors. He fits in better after that.
At night, Ivan and Till curl up in the same cot because they’re small enough to fit, and the camp only has so many places to sleep. Till’s very loud about hating it and presses himself to the wall furthest away from Ivan, who pliantly sleeps on the very edge, though in the morning, it’s always Ivan carefully removing himself from Till’s tangled limbs. Not that he’s complaining. The ravenous thing between his lungs quivers whenever he wakes up to Till’s head on top of his chest. Ivan knows it’s selfish; he knows it’s wrong, but when Till breathes against his nape in the dead of night, whispering, “So, we’re really free?” he thinks it’s okay to be selfish and wrong. There isn’t any other way for him to be, and he lets himself wallow in it for as long as he’s allowed to.
“As free as the stars,” he says. It’s almost true.
“So, you have a name now,” Isaac says as a way of conversation, one morning, while Ivan teeters behind him. Funny that his first mission is led by Isaac of all people. It’s nothing serious though, just scouting the area, stocking up on some supplies.
“Yes. It’s because I was a gift. That’s what it means.” The idea must make Isaac uncomfortable because he grimaces, so Ivan changes the subject. “About the leader,” he says.
“Jacob?” Isaac’s older brother is kind, good with his words; vital traits for a leader. He also has a keen eye for recruits, though he doesn’t like Ivan much, from what Ivan can tell. The feeling is mutual, anyway. Jacob’s slanted eyes are akin to the tiny cameras of ANAKT’s experiment rooms. Prodding at his every hitch. Close enough to tell that he doesn’t quite fit. Smile, Ivan. No, not like that. Here, we’ll show you. He tastes metal in the corners of his mouth.
“What does he plan to do here, exactly?” is what Ivan asks.
“We’ve been talkin’ about it. It’s a little up there, to be honest, the plan for the cause and all that. But I know he’ll do it,” Isaac says. “He’ll do something crazy, and those Sygien bastards will be sorry for it.”
When Ivan turns fifteen, he’s allowed to travel past the slums, joining on missions that dive into the heart of the city. It’s easier than any work back at the camp. Direct objectives. Navigation, reflexes, memory. Calculated risk versus success.
Passing by a dome of paned glass, Ivan sees posters of himself and Till for the first time, dozens of them haphazardly stuck over each other. Escapee pets. Unsha has a surprisingly high bounty on Ivan’s head, dead or alive. Ivan imagines that Unsha was equal parts angry and impressed by his feat. He reaches for one of Till’s posters, hesitates, then stuffs it into his sleeve.
His favorite part of a mission comes after it is over, when he is back at the base and gets to seek out Till who’s much more pliant to Ivan. A joy to exploit.
“We’re getting too old to share a bed,” he says, face pressed against Till’s neck. Like basking in the sun after a frigid winter.
“It’s not even that bad,” Till says just to be contradictory. He easily jabs a knee into Ivan’s side. But he doesn’t push him away.
Till turns fourteen not much after and starts training in the medical wing. Surprisingly, despite his plenty and troublesome visits, the nurses take a liking to him.
“I like helping there,” he says, at one point, while he and Ivan are on laundry duty. Till’s got his short sleeves rolled up to his shoulder and his pants up to his knees while he scrubs clothes against the washboard. Ivan appreciates Till’s bony shoulders and ankles while noting that Till’s hands are shaking as he speaks. Ivan chortles, flattening wet clothes against the drying rack.
“I do,” Till snaps, and Ivan thinks back to Till’s mouth collared shut as he flailed against bloodied ceramic. Ivan used to think that he only got collared for all his cursing until once, where Ivan unlocked his collar and was met with a hoarse scream. Ivan’s nose twitched for a second in shock. Till went on for hours, loud and raw, eyes small shaking dots. It became more common after that as Till grew older and his guardian crueler. Ivan would sit far away to avoid Till latching onto him in a violent frenzy, and he’d wonder, how much longer. The answer was always right up until Till collapsed onto the floor out of exhaustion. Then, Ivan would crawl over, trace his fingers against Till’s cheek, run them through matted hair, count steps in the protruding ladder of his spine.
There are still nights now where Till wakes up screaming that same way. He throws up at a glimpse of his own blood. He can’t even stand the sight of syringes. It’s only fair. He’d been subject to some of the worst experiments offered in ANAKT, after all. Ivan just doesn’t understand what Till is trying to prove by making himself purposefully uncomfortable. A result of some type of guilt or pride, if Ivan’s to guess. Till’s full of that.
“Whatever you say,” Ivan says.
“You’re so annoying.”
It impairs their post-mission routine when instead of dodging Ivan, Till starts asking, “Are you hurt?” fidgeting on his feet with a roll of gauze ready at his hand. It’s an unnecessary measure to prove himself worthy as a nurse in training.
Ivan always says, “Yes,” and asks, “Will you kiss it better?” which earns him muttered profanities. The concept of kissing is still strange, as is much of the intrinsic culture between the rebellion children. Ivan gets the appeal, though. Till called it disgusting, but Ivan walked in on him practising with the back of his hand once.
It’s a hassle when they move bases. No place is safe for too long, and they’ve well passed that point with this one.
Everything gets put on hold for weeks. All that’s passed around are lists of names and supplies, double checked then triple checked then packed away.
They move in groups. Too many leaving at a time is bound to rouse suspicion, possibly jeopardise the whole operation. This way they minimize their losses. Ivan and Till’s group is one of the last to leave, not big but balanced by its members’ know-how.
Along the way, they stop to rest. Ivan doesn’t get a wink. It’s too familiar in the moist cramped tunnels. His fingers itch to start a fire even though the sleeping bag is warm enough. There had been warm nights when he was young, scorching even, but sometimes, it was a matter of proving to no one in particular that he had it in him to stay alive: the Tch, Tch of sharp, clinking rocks. Sparks, embers, then smoke. He’d learned, through trial and error, what kind of trash burned up better.
He hears Till rustle out of the sleeping bag a few feet away and waits for him to turn the corner before following. Down a curved tunnel, Ivan finds him, face tucked behind his arms, peering out of a broken sewer plate. He doesn’t move when Ivan goes to join him.
Through a narrow alleyway, they are able to see into the city. Ivan has been to it many times, but Till’s duties rarely require him to leave and never past the slums. They’ve gotten used to the dark that comes with the rebel camp and its winding uneven halls. There aren’t many windows underground, only candlelight and dim lamps. Of course, it’s a world of difference between that and the city with its toppling geometric buildings and domes, rising and falling in height like a winding staircase, all covered in neon flashing screens. It’s dazzling, the sheer array of colors and light.
That means very little to Ivan when everything about Till glows— The sharp lines he coaxes into drawings. The rising notes he arranges into melodies. The teetering of his laughter. The air he breathes. Even the pained look he gives Ivan now, uncertain and stifled. It’s no comparison. Till could be spotted from a telescope light years away, and they would wonder what kind of life had led a star to grow so bright.
“Do you want to see more of it? The city, I mean,” Ivan asks, knocking his elbow against Till’s. He bites his lip but doesn’t answer, so Ivan just nods. “Okay.”
The new base, an abandoned building with a deep basement, is bigger. Part of it peers overground, too. It’s an improvement in many ways, though very dilapidated. Everyone is assigned new duties in order to help fix the place up, and they take advantage of the move to reorganize storage and archives, including the library. Ivan has a field day with the newly accessible books.
He and Till also each get their own cot, though in the same communal room. It’s on the second week there that Ivan startles to a loud siren and commotion blaring through the building.
When he springs up, his pillow grunts. No. Ivan blinks down at Till, clinging with one hand to the mattress and to Ivan’s shirt with the other.
Rushing outside, they find Isaac quelling a nearby crowd. “False alarm,” he says, rubbing his eyes.
After helping manage the chaos, Ivan drags himself back to bed where Till’s already made himself comfortable once again.
“Is there something wrong with your cot?” Ivan asks, squinting.
“Yeah,” Till says after a long moment.
“You should ask to get it fixed.”
“We have bigger things to worry about,” he says, curling himself up closer to the edge. Ivan shrugs and crawls back in. He disregards the way half his body hangs off the narrow bed in favor of watching Till snore quietly, the stuttering rise and fall of his chest.
“You’re saying you didn’t feel him squirreling into your bed every night? Like, at all?” Isaac asks the next day during artillery training.
“Every night?” Ivan furrows his brows.
“No joke. You sleep like the dead.” That is true enough. Till’s always been the type to talk and kick in his sleep, but that’s hardly mattered once Ivan’s dozed off.
“Do tell someone to check on his cot.”
Isaac responds by headshotting the furthest dummy.
Once things settle, Ivan starts dragging Till out on missions. He protests, of course, and so do many others. Ivan’s reasoning is that it minimizes risk if someone with medical expertise is on the team. Injury is commonplace during infiltrations; they simply can’t measure up to the Sygien’s advanced weapons, not yet anyway. Isaac doesn’t look convinced, but he’s growing smarter these days.
“You don’t have to wait until I’m back to practice your first aid on me,” Ivan says. Till squints at him.
Ivan is not as productive with Till around, he’s aware. He can be slower, and it’s difficult not to take every opportunity to poke fun at him, always so susceptible and reactive. But he gets the job done, so what trouble is it really?
It’s after their first mission together that they return to find that Jacob has left. It’s not uncommon. He’s the type to go out on solo missions when he’s trying to prove a point, and judging by the sour look on Isaac’s face, Ivan can guess who’s been on the receiving end of Jacob’s offbeat reasoning.
When Ivan prods him, Isaac only says, “He called you outdated.”
Ivan doesn’t understand until Isaac returns with a woman slung over his shoulder, and Ivan sees the silver spelling out the name on her chest. She’s dirty from head to toe but the most difficult part to look at is her left leg, mangled beyond repair.
It’s hard to imagine that Hyuna is the same person, a few days later, shoving a bottle in Ivan’s face and tripping over her own hiccups. “Why don’t you loosen up?”
She proceeds to wobble over to the next table, still adjusting to her new leg. Ivan somewhat prefers her this way. When she’s not shit-face drunk, she opts to watch him with narrowed eyes and gives ominous advice. She also finds a lot more of what he says funny, even if he’s not telling a joke. He does, however, enjoy when she teases Till, who blushes aggressively in her hold.
Things seem to be looking up for a while, but circumstance is a tipping scale; whatever goes up goes down with twice its weight. Jacob’s stubbornness forces him out on another mission, except this time, he doesn’t return when he’s supposed to.
The base is in disarray. Isaac’s able to quiet the growing anxiety for only so long in place of his brother. Surprisingly, it’s Hyuna who manages to snap the rebels out of it with the worst stage commentary in recorded history. When she starts singing for them on the dingy bar stage, Till rushes to join her, recently stolen guitar in his arms.
Jacob does eventually return. It’s hard to watch the medics rushing about when he does, knowing there isn’t much they can do. Till keeps rechecking his vitals with shaking hands while Jacob takes the opportunity to list off Isaac’s new duties, what they’ll have to do in his place. Then, he turns to Ivan to nod, and finally, to Hyuna, whispering.
It doesn’t take long for the rebellion to find its strength again with Hyuna and Isaac as its leaders. It wouldn’t be a rebellion if it were to die with just one person, after all. From then on, Isaac completes his training with more vigour. Revenge, too, is a good motivator.
Ivan gets sent on more intensive missions, and bringing Till along becomes more difficult, but on one occasion, it’s good that he does because his arm gets grazed more than a few times by a Sygien’s trap.
When they manage to get away, they pull into the nearest dark alley to catch their breaths. Ivan rips a flyer off the wall and flips it over to scribble on the back. They lost the drive with the information once they got attacked— It was either that or Ivan’s arm elbow down. Still, he read some of it while it was loading. It’s filed away in his mind if he looks for it hard enough. His hands move in a shaky scrawl against the paper.
“You know, I have a really good word for when you get all stubborn and stuck-up,” Till says, pushing Ivan to the floor and ripping his sleeve off.
“Let me guess. Four letters?”
“A few more actually,” Till says, wrestling Ivan’s arm away to inspect it under his small flashlight.
“Oh my,” Ivan says absentmindedly.
“Would you stop moving?” He’s whispering but with the intonation of yelling. It makes Ivan’s lips lift up at the corners.
“One moment.” He needs to write it down before he forgets.
Till’s voice turns into an unfamiliar tone. “There’s shrapnel in the wound. You need to—”
The gash below his shoulder burns hot. Ivan blinks down at the writing, muddled by dripping blotches of red. Till’s eyes go wide, and his face turns a little green.
Ivan had forgotten how much Till dislikes blood. He sighs, winded, and offers up the arm to Till without further argument. He pulls down another flyer. Writing is slow with his nondominant hand, but it’s a welcome distraction from Till’s prying fingers against the wounds. He presses Ivan’s flexing hand flat out.
“Keep it relaxed. I can’t do more until we’re back at the base.”
Ivan’s eyes grow bleary, but he stays focused. It’s only when, a few moments later, he notices that Till isn’t by his side that his alarm spikes. Squinting reveals Till peering from around the corner of the alley. Ivan follows his gaze to the largest screen playing the new season of Alien Stage. The first round’s audience is raving. Too many Sygien are gathering around the screen.
“We need to move,” Ivan says.
Till’s response is distant, quiet.
Ivan blinks, looks back at the screen. The last time he’s seen this face was in one of Till’s drawings years ago, much rounder and softer. She’s grown since, and the tips of her hair are dyed blue, but the woman falling to her knees on screen is unmistakable. So much for avoiding the sight of blood.
It’s a shame that Sua doesn’t make it. Ivan had quite liked her. She was a lot like him behind that soft shade of purple: a twisted liar. But then again, knowing her, she most likely wanted this, to die a martyr for Mizi.
Till’s panic is evident, and he's about to speak when Ivan’s hand flies to cover his mouth. He can feel Till’s entire trembling body between his arms.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Fuck you,” Till says, packing useless items into a bag.
“Eloquent.”
“Fuck you. You don’t want to help? That’s fine. I’ll go on my own if I have to.” He stomps off, gathering things from the other side of the room. When Ivan reaches for the bag, Till snaps. “I told you to keep your arm down! Do you listen to anything I say?” Ivan rolls his eyes and reaches with the other arm.
“You can’t save Mizi on your own. At least wait until we check the updated map layout before you decide to orchestrate your suicide.“
Till is snarling when Hyuna bursts into the room loud and dramatic.
“There you are!”
“How was the mission?” Ivan asks, turning away from Till.
“Mildly successful. I got a little distracted, so Dewey’s doing the report.” A figure, clad in white, at her side stirs.
Murmurs of curiosity flow in from the crowd outside, but the most prominent is next to Ivan: Till’s astonished, “Mizi?”
People have always been easily drawn to Mizi’s brilliant light. Hyuna, it seems, had not been an exception, though this Mizi is a far cry from the one they left back in the garden, that Till had almost run back halfway through for. Where she used to pull just about anyone into her arms, she’s become aversive to touch, flinching from and pushing away anyone too close. In truth, Ivan, at times, had liked Mizi’s playfulness, the chaos it brought was easier to enjoy than the rest of the bland children, but her boisterous energy was difficult to tolerate for long periods of time. That isn’t to say that Mizi now, lacking in that energy, is better off.
While Till’s running her checkup, he blurts out, “What things do you like now?” The suddenness —as well as the embarrassed flush on Till’s face— makes Ivan want to laugh. He remembers a distant memory, sat under ANAKT’s digital sun with Till petulantly mumbling, “I wanna get closer to Mizi.” Ivan had told him to ask her what she likes. Leave it to Till to take his advice a couple of years too late.
“Um,” Mizi says it like she’s asking a question, faltering, “Scary stories. And toothbrushes.”
Till furrows his eyebrows. “Tooth… Brushes?”
“Yeah, like when we’d clean the Wegyien’s teeth.” She seems to want to say more than that, but she stops herself.
“Oh, okay.” They blink at each other. “We have scary stories in our library, I think. Maybe even a movie?” She nods. “I’ll go look.” She nods again. “Right now,” and he rushes out. They can hear his receding stupid, stupid, stupid echoing through the hall.
Mizi lets out a huff, almost a laugh, which makes Ivan raise his brows.
Hyuna makes her own feeble attempts at cheering Mizi up. Mizi briefly plays along with them, but she usually only bends so far before breaking down. Sometimes, she seems comforted by Ivan’s small talk and Till’s conflicted silence. Other times, Ivan thinks he learns what resentment looks like on her face.
Eventually, Hyuna deems their efforts unsuccessful and tries for more extreme measures. She takes Mizi to finish the job at Alien Stage’s final round, saying, “It’s good to get out when you’re feeling down. Beat a Sygien’s head in or two. Turn that anger into something they can’t take away from you. Something they have to fear.”
Ivan is not amused by the idea of taking Mizi on a mission in that state, and so he goes to prevent any arising conflict if needed. Remarkably, things only go askew when Hyuna falters.
They’re quickly swarmed. But as Ivan squares his shoulders, he’s surprised to find Mizi at his back. She nicks herself with a gun, lasering her hair off in the process, but a second later she's blasting Sygien left and right. It’s not until Hyuna’s beaming in his direction that he realizes he’s got the same expression on.
Hyuna makes her way up to the control room, while Ivan and Mizi take the emergency stairs down into the experiment halls. Using the stolen keycard to get into the rooms, they file through vials and documents in the dark. Mizi tries to search with Ivan, but it’s clear what’s holding her attention. There’s only one lit screen in the corner, playing the current round.
Mizi’s expression twists when the losing contestant is shot, and she looks away, grip on the gun in her hand loosening. Mizi probably knew that person, Ivan realizes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. A courtesy.
She doesn’t take it kindly. Quietly, she asks, “Why did you leave on your own?”
Wouldn’t you? he wonders. If it were Sua? But the truth is that she isn’t like Ivan.
So instead, fastening the last few vials into his bag, he says, “I won’t blame you if it’s a grudge you want to hold.”
“No,” she says, brows pinched, “that’s not what I want at all.” She pulls herself away and back to the door. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
In the lit hall, it’s easier to see her hesitation, the way she bites her lip. “Did you know that she would– Did she– Did she ever tell you?”
“Not in so many words,” Ivan admits, “but she was easier to read than she would’ve liked to be.”
Mizi opens her mouth then shuts it again before saying, “It just feels stupid coming back here. After everything.”
“Well,” Ivan says, “you didn’t come on your own.” As Hyuna would say, they are all stupid people. That's what keeps them fighting.
Ivan empties a gun into a dummy in the shooting range then loads it for a second round. The mission had gone well all things considered. Hyuna got injured but managed to launch the missile. Now, all that’s needed is–
“Where the hell have you been?” Till’s voice snaps. Ivan turns to see him, with his usual roll of gauze. “I tell you not to strain your arm, and you go on a mission? To Alien Stage? Ha! And you call me suicidal.”
”It’s not the same,” Ivan says, brows furrowed. Why’s Till here?
“See if I care when you’re found dead. Why do I even bother taking care of an asshole like you?” Ivan stares for a moment.
“Do you need something?” he asks.
“Since when do you leave me alone just because I don’t?” Till asks, annoyed.
Fair point. But. “You can go talk to Mizi if you’d like.”
“What’re you getting at?” Till raises a brow and starts rolling Ivan’s sleeve up.
“I’m just saying.” No point looking a gift horse in the mouth, then.
Till grunts, running his hand over Ivan’s bandaged arm. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” Ivan says smiling. Low-hanging fruit. “Will you kiss it better?”
Till’s eyebrow twitches, and he huffs, mumbling under his breath what Ivan assumes is his new favorite list of profanities.
Then, his face reddens, and he pulls Ivan closer, presses a peck to his shoulder. Ivan blinks down.
“If you say a word about it, I’ll kill you.”
He quickly recovers. “If you give me one more, I’ll think about it. If you give me two, I’ll shut up for good.”
The roll of gauze gets thrown at his face.