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Blood. Too much blood.
Trickling down his leg, pooling in the cold dirt—
(Like a dream painted in vermilion)
Yet, he barely registers the pain. The world hums with static at the edges of his mind.
The mission is over.
This is what he would have wanted, right?
But then—why does the weight in his chest feel heavier than ever?
By the time he reaches the base, exhaustion claims him before he can fight it.
One time, when he opens his eyes, a harsh red sky meets sea-colored teal, and a tiny hand quietly holds his own—
Ivan is whispering something, but his little frame keeps flickering, slipping between sharp glitches and blurred lines.
Now, they are under the tree again. Green grass and red anemones.
Ivan is there, kneeling before him, fingers deftly bandaging Till’s wounded leg, just like he always did when they were young. His hands are steady, but his face—his face is so heartbreakingly sad.
And his eyes—oh, endless galaxy—are devoid of light.
Till wants to speak, to ask why, but the words won’t come.
Till doesn’t want Ivan to be sad.
Is there a way to make Ivan happy?
And so, Till tugs on Ivan’s sleeve (like always). Bracing himself on his injured leg, he weaves a flower crown with trembling fingers and places it atop Ivan’s head. Then, he pulls him close, arms wrapping around the shape of a boy who no longer belongs to this world.
(But he swears he can still feel the softness of Ivan’s ever well-kept hair against his flushed cheeks—it’s strange, how someone whose eyes lights up in every fight can still feel so gentle.)
"Cheer up," he whispers against Ivan’s shoulder.
But Ivan only grows sadder. The dream flickers, the garden distorts—sharp glitches, blurred lines. The space between them cracks like shattering glass.
(And somewhere far away, he hears the sound of his own heart breaking, painfully, like rainfall ripping the sky apart.)
(Red, red, and red.)
(You shouldn't fall asleep in this garden.)
Till wakes with a gasp.
The room is dark. Empty. He grips his sheets, trying to catch his breath. He feels an urge to claw his fingernails into his heart, just to feel something, or claw something out—but to no use.
His hands move before he can think. He drags himself out of bed, limping toward the desk. Paper, pencil—he barely makes it before collapsing into the chair, knocking over scattered supplies, hands shaking as he sketches.
Lines take shape.
Ivan, with a flower crown. A smile that reaches his eyes. Rosy cheeks, full of warmth, full of life—the way Till wishes he could remember him. The way he needs to believe he is, somewhere far beyond this broken world.
When it’s done, he presses the drawing to his chest, curling around it like something sacred, something fragile.
Drip.
Drop.
Tears slip down his face, silent, unrelenting. His body shakes, wracked with pain. His voice, a whisper, barely a breath.
"Ivan, you once sang to me the story of a raging sea—so cold, so angry, it could tear the sky apart and swallow the stars."
In this human-eat-human world, where time either ran too fast or too slow, its only indent being the constant corner of his smile and crushed red petals, Ivan somehow had a collection of books, their pages worn soft beneath his fingertips. Some days, when he wasn’t annoying Till, he would sit quietly under the tree, the rustle of pages a soothing melody to Till’s bleeding heart.
"But you also told me about the sea embracing the land, waves glittering like a thousand stars."
That, too, he had tried to carve into the walls of Anakt Garden.
"They blind my eyes," he huffed, before hauling a paint bucket twice his size toward them. If Ivan was amused enough, he’d lift Till up so he could reach the higher parts of the wall, and they’d end up tumbling down—a tangle of limbs and laughter, foreheads knocking together, even as bruises bloomed like tiny constellations across their skin.
(But no matter how many times he tried, the sea on those walls never looked right.)
"I wonder—if you were one of those stars, which sea would you have fallen into?"
"I hope it’s a gentle one."
"I hope it’s warm."
Some days, the heat was unbearable—sweat dripping down his hair, a tangled mess of teal, dirt, and sometimes, blood, smearing his notes and charcoal lines. But Ivan, stubborn as ever in his ridiculously prim long sleeves, would lean in anyway, peering through sweat-slick paper, so close there was barely any space to breathe.
(And yet, even when he reaches out, there is barely anything to hold on to.)
"I hope it cradles your soul."
His fingers curl tighter around the paper. His throat aches. His chest trembles.
"Will you let me hold your hand again?"
"Will you let me wipe your tears again?"
Ivan cried strangely. It was quiet, almost absent-minded—like he didn’t even realize he was crying. Just silent tears slipping down his blank red-black eyes, vanishing into the ripples of the small pond at the back of the garden.
Till would find him like that, sitting still. And without a word, Till would clear a space beside him, lower himself onto the grass—
Two baby rocks, side by side beneath the setting sun.
Silence. Only silence.
He closes his eyes.
"Ivan?"
No answer. Only the sound of his own quiet sobs.
Till falls asleep like that, curled around the only version of Ivan he has left.
By morning, his tears have blurred Ivan’s smile.