Chapter Text
“—talking with survivors of the Alien Stage disaster. As our viewers will remember, eight years ago today, human terrorists rained death upon thousands of innocent bystanders and ruined the lives of thousands more.”
“A true tragedy, Sylv, and one that continues to go unpunished as the leader of the human terrorists, Mizi, continues to evade both authorities and justice.”
“Yes, that’s a sad truth. At the end of the show, we’ll actually be joined by Heperu and his pet-human Luka, who, if you recall, is not only the only two-time winner of Alien Stage before its brutal end but is responsible for the only confirmed human death in the arena, having bravely faced off with the armed perpetrator only minutes after winning.”
“Truly an inspiration. As I understand, he’s never spoken about the incident in public.”
“And sadly, he’s still too traumatized, having only ever been able to bring himself to share details with his beloved guardian, Heperu, who assures us he’ll share every—”
The image changed from the two segyein show hosts to the last recorded image of the Alien Stage, a distant, hazy shot of Luka with a bleeding woman in his arms and, at the edge of the screen only partially visible, a woman with pink hair curled over the limp body of a man. Ivan clicked the screen off. Shoved the handheld tablet into the pocket of his coat along with the earbuds. Turned the collar up against the fingers of cold sliding down his neck, adjusted his face mask and ballcap. The hauler ambled along the street, its gravity hydraulics so shot his shoulder jammed against the wall of the bed every few feet. He’ll have a bruise tomorrow. Not that it mattered.
His feet dangled off the end, and he watched the road slide by without really seeing it. Was he doing the right thing, coming here? He tucked his hands under his arms to warm them, pushing back against memories that wanted to crowd in and overwhelm him. They beckoned, but he’d already lost too many years drowning in them. But as dangerous as they could be, they were still too precious to lose, so he’d become a dragon of old Earth and learned to hoard them. He selected a single treasure to hold close and locked the others away into their vault, closing his eyes as his shoulder thumped, thumped, thumped against the metal body of the hauler.
The smell of charcoal. The scratch of pencil on paper. The sound of breathing beneath his cheek, and the warmth of a familiar back. Artificial grass tickled his feet. In his memory, he opened his eyes to see false sunlight, turned his head so his cheek rubbed along the soft cotton of a shirt before lifting it to peek over a shoulder at the sketchbook.
“You’re drawing Mizi again.”
“Yeah. So?”
He couldn’t see the face, but he knew the sound of the scowl. He’d smiled, reveling in knowing he’d had an effect—any effect—on the boy beside him. “You always draw Mizi.”
“I do not! I draw loads of other stuff! See?” The sketchpad was held up, pages flicked through, images of Anakt Garden and its inhabitants fluttering by, some rendered in black and white, some in color. He thought maybe he saw his own image among them, but the book was abruptly shut.
Did he draw me? “Can I look through it?”
“No!” The boy huffed and set the sketchbook down, shoving back against Ivan until he sat up, and then the boy turned around so they sat side by side.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.” Scowling again, the boy drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He’d had a bandage on one cheek, a fading black eye, and a collar with a small green light glowing in the center. Messy gray hair flopped into teal eyes, kohl-rimmed by dark lashes, and Ivan wanted to fall into them and disappear.
Instead, he’d mimicked the pose, drawing his own knees up. “You’re not going to draw anymore?”
“Nah. Let’s do something we can do together.”
Together. The word blazed hot in his heart, warmed him from the inside out, had him devoting himself anew to this strange, sparkling boy that was the center of the universe. Ivan wanted to hold his hand or touch his hair or sit so they touched from shoulder to hip and reassure himself that he was real, and that they were here. Together. Instead, he shrugged. “Okay.”
Then the boy had vaulted to his feet, now vibrant with crackling energy, abandoning the art supplies. “Let’s race!” And then he took off, all elbows and knees and flopping hair as he sped toward the stream.
Ivan pocketed the charcoal pencil and leapt up, too, running after him and calling, “Hey! No head starts!”
And then the perfect boy called Till looked back at him and grinned as Ivan’s heart ached with love.
The hauler shuddered to a stop, jerking him out of his reverie. In the cab ahead of him, a voice called, “This is it.”
Ivan dropped down into the street, walked around the hauler to find the driver leaning out the window, arm draped along the edge. “Appreciate it,” he said.
The man tapped a finger to his hat. “Stay safe.”
As the hauler rattled away, Ivan turned and looked at the bar he’d come to find. The place didn’t look like much, tucked in a narrow back road between a rowdy pool hall and a rather seedy looking tattoo parlor. Still, the foot traffic was good, humans streaming by in small groups needing easy entertainment, and warm light spilled from the doorway as people came and went. The strum of a guitar bled into the darkening evening, and Ivan put his fists into his pockets to keep from touching the tattoo.
Four long years, and he finally felt like he may have found a solid lead. For the first time in a long time, he thought maybe he could actually succeed, finish the only thing that had kept him living despite the agony of grief that had hollowed him. When Till died on the stage that day, the universe died, too. Color and music and light all collapsed into a void so vast that it felt meaningless to keep air moving in and out of his lungs. He’d been lost to it, forced to endure, until finally he had a single realization that might be worth living for, at least for now. The one thing that had him rising from bed, forcing himself to eat and drink, to walk among the living again even if he only imitated it.
What would Till have wanted him to do?
And he knew. The one thing left that he could do for the one he loved.
Find Mizi.
Inside the bar, Ivan paused to assess the room. A little dim and more than a little scuffed around the edges, the bar was nevertheless clean and raucous. People filled the narrow space, laughing and jostling. A small stage had been tucked into the far back corner, the spotlight on a black knit cap, the only part of the musician not hidden by the crowd as he bent to something near his feet. Most of the crowd had pressed close, the atmosphere eager and waiting but with an edge of encroaching exhaustion. Ivan felt like he’d caught the end of a set as he finished scanning the crowd. He caught a flash of pink hair near the back of the group clustered around the stage, but the woman was too tall to be Mizi, body too angular, so he made his way to the bar along the opposite wall, putting his back to the crowd.
When the bartender made eye contact, Ivan lifted a finger and set money on the counter, and the man nodded, swapping cash for beer and moving on. Ivan drank without tasting it, wondering how best to start asking questions. He hadn’t expected this large of a crowd. Were they all here for the man on the stage?
Well, whatever the reason, the bartenders were going to be busy for a while. Maybe he could suss out some of the regulars. Figure out a way to sidle into their conversations. Finding a free spot of wall nearby, he leaned against it and considered the crowd, mulling over his options.
The experimental strum of a guitar had the crowd's energy spiking. He watched them surge forward a little and crest against the stage, found himself swallowed back into memories, no longer seeing this crowd but the ones before. Segyein screaming approval. Rain. Till going silent, voice fading, that beautiful, blazing fire that had always burned inside him fading, too. Then Till’s eyes, wide and startled, staring at him. Looking at him. Seeing him. Joy and sorrow. And then pain. Falling. Till’s expression shifting into disbelief and confusion. Feeling laid bare and unbearably lost but darkly satisfied because everything was worth keeping Till alight. Then darkness.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, tightened his hand around his glass. Maybe he could come back later.
“Sorry about that, folks,” the man on stage said into a microphone, humor warming his voice.
Ivan jerked. He sounds like Till. His body went hot and then cold, broken heart cracking again. Only because he’d been remembering Till, he decided. Only an echo.
“Looks like we’re back in business. Just in time for the last song of the night.”
The crowd protested, a pair of hands in fingerless gloves rising above them and patting the air in a “there, there” motion, metal flashing from the rings on his fingers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back next week. But if it’s all right with you all, I’d like to end my set on a new song.”
I can’t do this. He sounded too much like Till. Chest tight, Ivan thunked his nearly full glass on the closest table, startling the inhabitants there, ignoring their protests as he began to shove his way for the door. His ears were ringing. Vision darkening.
The guitar began slow, the melody reflective. Blood pounded in Ivan’s temples.
No. I can’t. It’s too much. Too much. Get out get out getoutgetout!
And then the voice, rising behind him, clear and resonant, a little husky at the edges. “Tonight is hushed...”
Ivan went still. Stopped breathing.
“...A night repeating...”
No.
No, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
“...Clutching my throat, whispering ’It's fine’...”
As if from a distance, he watched his body turn. Watched himself ease back through the crowd. Heard the voice he knew as well as his own rise and fall against him, the words lost. Chest burned, aching for air, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he saw. Not until he knew for sure that it's only his own aching memory playing tricks on him. Only insanity and not the impossible. He threaded between people he didn’t see, slipped through empty spaces, drifted closer until, ahead of him, the crowd shifted, parting enough that Ivan could finally see the man on stage. His lean body curved over the guitar, leaning toward the microphone as if wishing he could pour himself into it, head tilted and eyes closed as he sang sweet melancholy, his expression ethereal. Beautiful in that raw, wild way he remembered.
Ivan’s vision tunneled and burned white at the edges. He felt acutely the currents of air stirred by the ebbing crowd even as his fingers went numb. Memories flooded and faded away again, overlapping each other and the vision before him. The line of that jaw. The tilt of those eyes. The lithe curve of arms with their subtle, sleek play of muscle as clever fingers strummed and fretted. He knew them all, even if the details had begun to fade. Knew the way all those parts moved in the whole, the externalized motion of someone never willing to yield, the internalized flame of always wanting more, the giving of himself over fully to a moment—memories of those had never faded. Those he dreamed of at night, missed with everything he had been, yearned for with a hopelessness that had left him hollow.
He sank to his knees as his lungs swelled and then released on a single word.
“Till.”