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'Seven more minutes,' the countdown for Round 6 on the unblinking TV ticks down as my face and Till's waver on the screen. Alien announcers feverishly banter amongst each other, placing bets on who will come out alive and a winner. Human pets dart just under the camera shot, spindly, sickly arms—a hallmark of underfed mouths—trembling as they balance platters of drinks they could only dream of tasting.
'There’s no point in betting anyways, knowing what the outcome will be,' I think as my handler raps wet and slimy tentacles on my door, the faint rasp and gargle a reminder to get out.
I've been prepared for the round for an hour or so now, but nevertheless I turn to my balcony door and fuss over my hair one last time.
Beyond that faint ghost of me a hairsbreadth from my eyes there sprawls a grove of towers that pierce the sky and further, screens nothing less than bright unblinking gazes, figures of aliens and human pets below—undeservingly washed in the fickle limelight of the screens.
And the lowly hills and craters just beyond.
The hills and craters where the meteor shower set the sky, his hair, his eyes, his soul, alight. Where Till let my grasp empty and turned back, where I followed suit as a worshiper would to his God.
‘The meteor shower should be soon, hopefully he’ll get to see it again after our round.’
I’m at the door at the 3-minute mark of the countdown, the handle furiously rattling and oozing slime as my handler loses temper at my tardiness. In the rush of unlocking the door, a soft scent brushes past the sour of my handler’s goo and I pause, my lips carving into a small sweet smile as I wistfully remember that man all over again.
∗⊹❇⊹∗
I stand in the shadows of the stage, boots soaking in the rain roaring and cold, watching Till—weary and worn and so different from the person I followed back under the glow of that meteor shower—open the song like it's a forced confession to crime and my heart feels that it would thoroughly break and send me to my grave earlier.
His eyes are so dull, a stark contrast to the flame that would always set his soul and song ablaze. The wildfire that always burned so close under his skin was now a flickering matchstick flame.
But under the dark soot there's still a spark in his eyes, and his chants carry that sputtering fire—bending but resistant.
Truly, Till was my God and worship.
·✧·
I am the polar opposite of Till, since our crossing and in our current moment; Till, his unkempt bright hair, eyes a gaping window to his mind, skin caked in powder to hide the bruising, calloused fingers, a voice like the warm honeyed whiskey I serve my handlers, a god—Myself, hair black and slicked, a reserved gaze, unmarred skin, blunt nails, a velvet murmur, a servant.
I stand by his side dressed like a bride, him a groom, and our pairing a funeral. Yet we will still sing our vows, and I will die proclaiming mine.
Till gazes forward and nowhere as he pours the sorrow of the river Acheron into the mic and onto the audience, and I watch him with a priest's diligence, my lips following his song in complement and worship.
Neither of us pay mind to our spectacle.
·✧·
Despite the thorn-prickled lyrics, the song smoothly flows like water from our tongues—a riptide ripping you away and drowning you before you’d even notice
Then at the cusp, Till drops the song.
Here I will act, earlier than precedent but an opportunity is not meant to be missed, and I cast my mic aside. To him I will run to in the dark—for comfort, for light, for salvation.
'He has to win,' is all I can think and hope for, and I will give what I have and more for him to have that victory, that survival.
The heavens and universe would bend and crackle under my resolve, the loom of the Fates would snap, the sun would cease.
To save my god.
Yet I am only a man, a pet, and still I will be selfish as I save him.
I will steal and devour what I can take from him at this moment, and pray it won't haunt me as I go.
I press my lips to his and squeeze my eyes shut, cowardly in the face of my sin yet so wanting anyway.
I can taste the rain in the cracks of his lips, and I chase it like an elixir. His mouth is tainted and dirty with the despair and grief of our song, and I kiss him harder as if I can rub it away with my own.
In the dark of my squinted eyes, I can feel how cold he is to my touch, and how slow he is to damn me for my defiling.
A final peck I leave on his lips as I open my eyes once more and last, and there I hold his captive, half-lidded and dazed and for once, unreadable under his haze.
'Forgive me,' I pray to him through my gaze, a foreshadowing as I grasp his neck firm and brutal but unfatal.
The windows of his eyes fling open again, a rushing burst, and in his shock his hands reflexively claw at my ungiving wrists.
In the corners of my sight I can see the vote slowly tipping to Till’s favor, but it's still not enough.
A final peck, 'I'm sorry, it's only for a while, I promise.'
Till finally stops, almost as if he heard my unspoken promise, but the way he lets go and slumps was all too real, and in my mind I felt I damned him to a fate worse.
Panic clenched at my heart as my facade held firm in the unblinking eyes of the world, unable to seep through the cracks and in my head I scream for him.
‘Please, please oh please, oh god, oh my god, please. Do not accept my disgrace as your relief, I beg you, my god. I beg you, don't forgive me for this, damn me I beg of you.
Anything but forgiveness.’
Another god answers me, and my side blooms in crimson and pain. As much as I am grateful for that mercy, I still keep my hands on Till's neck.
For his victory is unsecured until my life pays for it.
Another two bullets plough through the pristine white of my funeral shroud, leaving blooms of beautiful red in its wake.
Blooms of Clematis red, ones that Till may come to pluck and weave to adorn his brow.
It's the fourth bullet that finally signs my death, and with trembling hands I finally let go of Till, the warmth of my limbs seeps away and bubbles out my mouth as my feet stutter and tumble, but despite it all my eyes stay fixed on Till.
The last I see of him are his eyes; pupils blown wide open, the teal of his irises a blinding gleam.
His eyes were finally ablaze.
They haunt me to my grave.
∗⊹❇⊹∗
Till stands over Ivan’s cooling body, the ever-growing pool of blood a clock ticking down on Ivan’s life.
He doesn’t bother to save it.
He couldn’t be bothered to save it.
He can’t save it.
The hologram announcing his win floats in the reflection of Ivan’s blood, a mocking taunt.
There is no pride and sparkle that comes with the win.
All his win brings is the unwelcomed smell of petrichor and iron sticking to Till’s skin, a memory that will haunt him wherever he goes.
He never did win.
⭒☆★☆⭒
Far from the arena, Ivan’s apartment is still as cold and uninviting as it was when Ivan once roamed its halls. The furniture sat almost undisturbed, the barest of touches and grasps ghosting over the surfaces; an unused bed, a bare fridge, counters clear of dust.
It’s only the bowl that sits in the middle of the coffee table that is still warm with the musing of Ivan’s fingers. Chipped glass and dulling varnish, beautiful engravings and clean rims—a warm story of the care Ivan spoiled it with.
A bowl of potpourri, of Clematis buds and blooms.
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∗⊹❇⊹∗
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“Ivan?”
My eyes shot open, wide and painful, at the sound of Till’s voice.
Did I fail? Were we both executed?
“Ivan.”
I turn to the voice, to its owner.
It really was Till, somewhat.
He was a child again, his name engraved in the side of his neck still fresh and red at the edges, the sticky gleam of topical anesthesia sharing the warmth of the setting sun with the silver of Till’s engraving.
Till’s brow was furrowed, as per usual, but his eyes were focused on me for once. “What are you doing, Ivan? Sit back down.”
A quiet mutter of “okay..” slips past my lips–reflex–and I shuffle into the grass beside him.
He doesn’t look at me, his gaze fixed to the tip of his pencil scratching on crumpled paper. My eyes watch him–for a while–before they drift and watch the horizon, where a faint mirage hovers.
It’s the countdown I watched from my TV, with seven minutes ticking down.
Seven minutes.
“Hey, Till.” My head falls to rest on his shoulder
His shoulders tense when my head lands, but it melts away soon enough as he hums in response.
“Do you know the brain–” I shift to poke his temple, the pad of my finger softly digging into the flesh, accentuating the point, “–stays alive for about seven minutes post-death?”
His eyes shift to mine briefly; he’s genuinely intrigued, “Really? Why?”
A small spark of pride flashes in my chest, the feeling of getting Till to regard me, “Apparently, it’s to replay all the good memories it has before death.”
A pause, a comfortable silence.
Till’s voice is tame as he speaks, the fire burning low and warm—a campfire crackle, “Is that so? That’s cool.”
His eyes are still fixed to his sketches, while mine drift from his once more and to the countdown.
There’s two minutes left.
‘You’re my seven minutes, do you know?’
The thought rots on the tip of my tongue.
·✧·
Barely a minute remaining, the sun is almost under the horizon and the stars are creeping up behind us both, the cooler and softer light making Till’s hair blinding—a halo.
I chase Till’s warmth as my head rubs into the raw crook of his neck, careful to not aggravate his fresh engravings.
I shut my eyes before my time finally finishes, the back of my eyelids a warm vermillion from the remaining rays of sunset that still chase the sky in spectacular streaks.
The sketches of Clematis flowers on the edges of Till’s sketchbook are the last I see of him.
∗⊹❇⊹∗