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“What are you drawing there?”
Ivan watches as the gray-haired boy in front of him jolts comically on the ground, the pencil in his hand screeching as its lead tip gets dragged across paper.
“What the- don’t sneak up on people like that!” Till scolds him, face twisted into a frown that looks more half hearted than usual.
Something is wrong . Ivan doesn’t comment on it, though. He doubts he’d get an answer from him anyway, so he just shrugs.
“You were the one so engrossed in the sketchbook that you didn’t notice me approaching,” he answers, moving to sit down beside him. Already, the other boy has resumed drawing, holding the pencil with a deftness that radiated a crude sort of professionalism. Ivan stares at his hand for so long that it takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the actual drawing.
“...Costumes?”
Till’s face flushes. “Shut up.”
“I’ve hardly spoken.”
He doesn’t respond to that, and the two just sit in silence for a moment or two. It isn’t until the quiet grows bearable for Ivan that it becomes unbearable for the other.
“It’s for after when we break auditions,” Till explains, lips pursed into a pout.
Ivan stares down at the sketchbook once more. “‘We’?”
Fingernails bitten and chewed, flesh still clinging onto the fat of youth– oh, that was Till’s hand. He got distracted again. His arms are tired from the awkward position of leaning in, but Ivan doesn’t bother to adjust them.
“Mizi and me,” the little artist says, words shy but firm. Determined.
Ivan drags his black eyes up to look into Till’s green ones. “Mizi and I.” He'd technically been correct, he just wanted to mess with the guy.
“Shut. Up.”
“So you’ve said before.”
Till turns away to continue drawing. Ivan follows.
The outfits aren’t bad looking. Despite what he’d first assumed, the other boy wasn’t lacking in fashion sense. Shades of black, silver chains. One outfit for a boy, and the other for a girl. Not bad looking at all, but…
“Would Mizi like wearing that?” Ivan asks.
Till pauses, his pencil hovering in the air. Lead coats the underside of his hand. Ivan’s never tasted lead before, but knows of its shine. “What do you mean?”
The black-haired boy points at the paper. “Mizi looks like the type to prefer more feminine, form-fitting outfits. I don’t know if she’d want this design for her debut in Alien Stage.” His tone is matter of fact.
“...” Till appears to mull this over, a crestfallen frown beginning to form on his features. Ivan can only marvel at it.
“Am I wrong?” He says, his voice quieter than before.
Till glares, but not at him. Rather, the paper. “Shut up.”
For once, Ivan obeys him and closes his mouth. He thinks to himself that it would be better if he could let his eyes do the talking, like how Mizi or the other children did. Not like it matters now.
The other boy continues to scowl at the drawings, before ripping it cleanly off from the rest of the sketchbook and dropping it to the ground. The sound of tearing is deafening.
Till stands up and Ivan, once more, lets his gaze follow him. “Where are you going?” The latter asks.
“I give up,” the former declares, masking his botheredness with a shrug. “I’m gonna go make flower crowns.”
“Should I go with you?” Ivan muses, the question both directed towards Till and to himself.
“You don’t even like making them,” Till responds, tone accusatory. “I can do it by myself, so… so leave me alone!”
With that, he storms off, leaving Ivan sitting in the middle of the artificial grass field. Completely alone.
Scratch that– not completely . After all, Till’s mark is left on the scene in the form of a crumpled piece of sketchbook paper.
Ivan picks it up, examining the drawings once more. Lead coats the pads of his fingers, but it doesn’t look quite as appetizing on his own skin.
“They aren’t bad at all,” he tells Anakt Garden, his voice loud and clear in the silent field.
Till would look good in the boy’s clothes, he notes, tracing the silhouette of the baggy shirt. Surprisingly, the boy has left on a choker heavily resembling a disciplinary collar. How ironic .
It is at this moment that Ivan feels he can truly appreciate the color black. Maybe I’ll wear something in this shade , he thinks to himself. Not like this, though. It doesn’t suit me .
His decision branded into his mind, the boy stands up as well, careful not to smudge the pencil lead from his hands onto his spotless clothes. Someone would likely punish him if he were to.
Ivan neatly folds the paper into a square and, on his trip back to the main building for lunch, wonders if Till has already finished making his flower crown.
“I have a proposal to make.”
Ivan’s master visibly perks up at such an offer, turning to face him. What is it , he asks through the narrowing of his eyes.
And Ivan is more than happy to satiate his curiosity. “It’s about our costumes.”
Our? His owner wonders.
“Till and I.”
I see . The alien studies him. Spit it out, then .
“I had an idea about what to make them… something like this?”
Taking out a familiar sheet of paper, Ivan unfolds it. Even now, the lead stains his hands, but the drawing miraculously has stayed relatively intact. After a moment of thinking, he tears off Mizi’s half and presents Till’s to his owner. The noise of something ripping apart is grating, but ultimately insignificant to the pounding of his heart in his own ears.
There’s no reference for your own outfit , the alien points out.
Before Ivan can respond, the sound of a door slamming open is heard. Another familiar thing– a face, a person , is dragged into the room by its master, eyes angled down at the ground with bruises blooming gloriously over once-healthy flesh.
Ivan swallows and turns back towards his own owner. “All I ask is for my costume to be white. Nothing more.”
The creature squints at him further, a glower forming over its features. Twisted, unsightly.
You must give it your all, understand ? It commands.
Ivan smiles, hoping it doesn’t look too grim. His eyes flit towards the man in the corner, who sinks down to the floor like he wishes to melt into it. “Of course.”
Good .
With that, Ivan’s master and Till’s master approach one another. Upon gifting the other a simple nod, they leave for the likely reason of going over this decision together.
The one still standing in the room stares down at his hands. Lead-coated, like they were back then. This time, however, he wipes it off on his pants. He doesn’t care much for the consequences anymore, and he doubts it would marr his face before such a crucial turning point in the competition.
Ivan walks over to Till after doing so, realizing that the man, a pitiful thing, has lost consciousness. Sleeping, but not resting.
…
He bends down to observe him. The man’s chest rises and falls with each breath, and his brow wrinkles with the remnants of a frown.
Dreaming about her , he thinks. Yes, most likely. He almost wants to ask, but fears the thought of Till waking up to hear him. He’s been fearing an abnormal amount of things recently.
You look good in black , Ivan tells the Till in his head. You manage to look good in everything, but I think you look best in black.
Maybe in this performance… our final stage…
I’ll look good in pure white, too.
Will Till recognize the design? He wonders. Does he even want him to?
He closes his eyes, knowing that Till would likely awaken and leave the room before he would come to once more, and that he possibly wouldn't even remember the outfit he'd created years prior. Not like it matters. He’s never done anything– any of this , for some sort of pay off on his end. It’s easy to act like it doesn’t hurt.
Ivan briefly wonders how red will look on him before he drifts off to not rest, but sleep.