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Till should be used to it. He's been a prisoner for as long as he's remembered. He's been abused for as long as he remembered. But he refused to live like this—Till is a human, a person with feelings. Till refuses to oblige to their demands, to fall to their hands without fighting back.
Because if he were to comply without an ounce of resistance, that'd be pathetic, wouldn't it?
The first time he witnessed kindness, he saw it in a girl. She had pink hair, gorgeous eyes.... oh, he's seen a Goddess, hasn't he? That kindness and compassion wasn't directed to him, but like how hearing the tale of a God's mercy and kindness to His followers is enough to make another person believe—that's how she was to him.
Fighting back is only natural, of course. But in the end, the emptiness within him never left. It felt like he was done for. But witnessing somebody like her, a saint—a Goddess—she was like a prayer that had been granted. Maybe hope still existed in this cruel world.
Like an edelweiss of feelings that bloomed within that dark cycle of emptiness.... Mizi.
Till always found himself glancing her way. She was beautiful, so that was only natural. But her kindness and compassion, her smile, her actions towards that girl—towards everyone—was what had Till's heart bound.
She was always with her, they must be lovers, or something of the sort. Till already knew there's no way someone like Mizi would ever look his way. To him, she was like a Goddess, an angel, whilst he a mere banana peel on the ground.
Yet she saved him. Her mere existence—her beauty, her kindness—saved him.
Whenever things got bad, Till would think of her. Till would think of Mizi's beautiful smile, perhaps giving him one—lending out a hand for him to hold. Would Mizi's hands be soft or would they be rough, Till finds himself thinking. But an angel like Mizi surely had soft hands—she doesn't have blood stained on them, after all.
Allow me, to the tip of your fingers. Allow me, to the ends of your feet.
Till will always only be gazing at her from the sidelines—and he was fine with this. He was fine with looking at her, not having a glance spared back. He didn't need it, anyway. He knew Mizi was happy with that girl. He knew she was unreachable—and that made her all the more better.
To him, Mizi is pure. Mizi is an angelic being he wouldn't dare lay his hands on. A mere mortal couldn't possibly taint a Goddess with his filth. His hands are covered in blood, his ideas absurd—he's insane, and she's an angel, a heavenly being.
My God, My Savior.
Like his God, like his savior—the mere imprint of her being in his head, the belief of her purity, was enough to keep Till sane. Till had been as good as dead for his whole life, and this belief bloomed hope—bloomed life.
Dissolve me in your gaze, I don't want to let you go.
When Mizi's loved one died, Till didn't know how to feel. Her being dead doesn't make Mizi any more reachable than she was before. She will never be at the grasp of his palm—or rather, he doesn't want her to be. His filth shall not taint her purity for as long as their souls lived on.
But when it was announced that Mizi was missing, with the possibility of her being dead—the emptiness came back. The last speck of hope in this world was gone, the only symbol of life was dead. He should give up now, shouldn't he?
Please, leave me scars. Please, hurt me so that not a single drop of me remains.
It's over. The light is gone—there is no hope for new beginnings, no hope for purity to wash down the filth and dirt this world is covered in. Till might as well be dead, he thinks.
His owner tried to boast of his singing abilities, trying to get him to sing Mizi's song. He couldn't possibly do that. For one, a song of Mizi's love with her most cherished one must be sacred. And again, that filthy voice of his must not taint something so pure.
Let me drown in you until these falling stars are buried in the blur of time.
Mizi, your light will live on. One last time, to blur his own thoughts, to have control. He fought back—but what could he do? Aliens were more powerful, that's common knowledge. No matter how much he fights back, Till, nor humanity, will never stand a chance.
He found himself thrown around, violated—like he's always been. And he's gotten used to it.
On your icy lips, read my soul.
Hey, Mizi. Save me. One last time, he fought back. One last time, he'll pray for her to save him, once again. The vivid imagination of her smile, her soft gaze on him—her soft hand reaching out to him once more. My God, My Savior.
Not long after, he found himself out cold. The pitch black view of not being conscious, the coldness running through his body—yes, maybe death wasn't meant to be ran away from forever. She was gone, after all.
In that freezing cold atmosphere, where his consciousness ceased to exist, he felt a warm hand place on his cheek—the caress soft and loving. Maybe he's finally lost it, hallucinating of Mizi's touch. But wouldn't it be nice if someone were to actually touch him this way?
He feels that warmth tilt his head slightly, before that warmth embraces his body, pressing their forehead onto his cheek. Amidst the freezing cold, this warmth exists, and it feels good. You'd have to be as filthy as dirt to want to lay your hands on me.
To this everlasting memory,
face to face we dance, With our story .. Lost in forever's embrace.
Till had believed Mizi was love, Mizi was light, Mizi was the only soul that truly existed, whom truly mattered—so why was Ivan's lips on his? Why was he embracing him as if he was the angel, he was the God, as if his impure being mattered in this world?
When Till finds Ivan's fingers tangled in his hair, his lips pressed on his, he hadn't even the time to process. Till pushes him away, his eyes widened in shock. All these years, he's only ever seen her.... and for Ivan to act as if someone as revolting as him even deserved a glance spared his way?
Till pushes him away again, but Ivan continues to kiss him. And as he gives him a questioning glare, Ivan lowers his hands around Till's neck—choking him. Is this it? This is probably an act to have him dead, Till thinks. His head is too clouded to even digest the fact that Ivan wasn't even blocking his airways, only applying pressure as an act of choking him.
In Till's mind, he was far gone from the start, after all. Dying by Ivan's hands wouldn't be so bad, he thought. Till knew Ivan. As kids, they'd interact like bickering pigeons. Ivan led him to escape once, but Till ran back for Mizi. Ivan stepped on the flower crown he made for Mizi once, leading for them to fight. Ivan released him from his confines a bunch of times, even sometimes tending his injury. There was tthis one time Ivan touched the scrape on his cheek, licking his blood—oh, oh.
Till and Ivan crouched on the grass, a smushed up flower on the ground between them. "Did he die?" A small Ivan asked—looking back on it, that was a pretty dumb question to ask. Till could only stare in silence, a petal of the flower already leaving its pistil.
"..Cheer up, cheer up!" Young Till was pretty dumb too, he thought. Ivan repeated his chants, and they continued chanting together, as if it could bring the flower back to life.
Another voice was heard—Till couldn't remember who, they didn't matter the way Ivan did. Wait, what?
"What are you doing, losers?" That voice called out in a snarky tone. "What?!" Small Till snapped, having that same attitude he always had. "What's a loser?" Ivan asked, and Till remembered all too well what an idiot he thought of Ivan at that moment.
"It means you're a friendless idiot," he told Ivan, slightly sounding like a know-it-all. "Then it's you, right?" Ivan asked with that pretend-innocent tone. What an annoyance, Till always thought. A heavy blush coated his cheeks in embarrassment as they puffed up, his fist landing a hit on Ivan's forehead.
Small Till stomped away angrily, and in his steps, he heard Ivan chant; "...Cheer up. Cheer up."
Till hadn't even realized when he closed his eyes, when he realized that Ivan wasn't putting any real pressure on his neck, or when he realized his votes won against Ivan. The music was loud, so was the rain, Till's consciousness was barely even with him. The next thing he knew, Ivan's grip was loose on him, Ivan's lips pouring out blood—the same lips that just kissed him—Ivan's body falling onto the ground.
Till's hand reaches towards his neck, feeling it up and realizing no marks were made. It doesn't hurt. Ivan never tried to hurt him, let alone kill him.
The Ivan who cared for Till with all his heart, the Ivan who risked his life to save Till countless times, good boy Ivan who risked it all for him, the Ivan that tended to his wounds, the Ivan who kissed him just now, the Ivan who pretended to attack him to lose votes, the Ivan who loved him—his Ivan.
Ivan is dead. And even at his last moments, his eyes were still on Till.
They say when someone dies, their life flashes before their eyes. But in this situation, Till felt like it was him who had Ivan's life flash before his eyes.