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"I love you and that's the beginning and end of everything." — F. Scott Fitzgerald
Their fingers interlocked, Till gripped Ivan's hand without fear, without the burdens of his one-sided world. The sky was smeared with the blood of people groomed as mindless fodder for the entertainment industry, for monsters who let blood drip from the stage. If humanity had known aliens would be this heartless, would they have fought harder or surrendered sooner? Ivan often cursed his heritage, wondering what it would be like to be free. But if he truly understood freedom, would he triumph or drown in its vast unpredictability?
Now, they were as free as the universe's pity allowed. Till longed for freedom, not control. He wanted the chains around his arm to no longer block him from saving himself. Yet, a shudder crept up his back, taunting him that he'd never be free. When Ivan suggested running away with nothing, Till had wanted to punch him. How could he leave everyone behind? Ivan was childish, making impulsive decisions that Till swore would be the death of him someday.\
So what had changed? Why was Till now being dragged by Ivan under the blood-red sky? Adrenaline was a drug Till was used to overdosing on. He craved it, and he knew it. But deep down, a part of him wanted to escape with Ivan. When reality set in, he felt sick and prayed for pity. As his heartbeats slowed and doubts filled his mind, Till let go of Ivan's cold hand.
Eye contact conveyed thousands of words. Ivan stood as an enigma under the meteorite's red glow, his thoughts hidden behind a manufactured smile. Till knew Ivan. If he went back, Ivan would escape alone. He was that cold. Yet, Ivan's touch held a warmth Till had never experienced.
Till couldn't step back after seeing the loneliness in Ivan's eyes. They stared at each other longer than friends should. Then again, what did they know of normalcy? “Are we going to regret this?” Till's question needed no answer. They both knew they would either regret this decision or die here. Ivan stepped closer, and Till held his breath. A smile played on Ivan's lips, revealing a vampire tooth.
“Did you ever dream of growing old?”
“Dreams are a privilege.”
Ivan laughed, and Till joined him. Their humor was twisted, but it beat crying over nonexistent dreams. Dreaming was for the rich, and they were nothing without their masters—just Till and Ivan.
Till clasped Ivan's hand, pulling him forward. Holding hands shouldn't have been so intimate, but it was. Ivan's hand was cold, a stark contrast to Till's blistered, scarred one. Yet, Ivan held tighter, refusing to let go.