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It’s odd the way ANAKT Garden runs things, Ivan can’t help but ponder. Giving its humans freedom, but within a closed box: telling them do as you like but so long as it doesn’t make your collar beep red.
Humans' current understanding of what Earth was, and of its people, is a product of this system. Books and stories are all they have left after being salvaged from the ruins, brutally reviewed by Sygien officials, and then carelessly tossed into the little entertainment ANAKT has to offer.
And what do they provide? Missing chunks of context: a fragmented image of celebrations and tragedies, visible at times, but barely so, blurred by the dwindling of humanity in the era of Sygien, and then mercilessly smeared by the meaning they, the children of ANAKT, try to give to it.
At this thought, Ivan grips the card in his pocket a little tighter, tracing his finger along its edges.
Furthermore, their everyday “weather” (only a condition of a giant holographic sky, internal heating systems, and a programmed weather cycle) is another of this system’s products, of Sygien’s belief in “recreating Earth’s natural environment” and “the ultimate habitat for human growth.”
Ironically, in stripping humans of the chance at a true unfiltered glimpse of their lives back on Earth, the Sygien stripped themselves of the chance of ever understanding what any of those roles actually play in humans’ lives.
Though, then again, Ivan considers, the system creates enough successful humans for their market to thrive. They have no reason to care; to Sygien, this is good enough.
And, as Ivan drags his feet through grass, wet after a calculated 45 minutes of sprinkled rain, he figures that he, too, must settle for “good enough.” Even if he’s scrunching up his nose at the unpleasant texture.
After all, he can’t afford to get his only pair of pristine white shoes dirty in the mud.
This would be quick anyway. He just needs to find Till, and while his outbursts remain unpredictable, his hiding spots, at least, are not.
Ivan pauses, breathes in the stinging chilly air and turns to a tree by the river, one almost exactly like any other to an unfamiliar eye but not to Ivan’s.
It’s the one you’re sure to find an irritable Till resting by after a violent scolding. On his better days, it’s where he enjoys composing, surrounding himself with piles of papers and half-written lyrics and melodies. Now, like many difficult nights, he’s curled up against it, wistfully watching the sky.
Ivan has to force himself to move; it’s too tempting to just stand and watch him: a version of Till so uncharacteristically serene. Ivan wants to etch the image into the corners of his mind.
But then again, there’s nothing quite like getting Till worked up, and when Ivan steps into sight, it sure does the trick.
The difference in demeanor is immediate and obvious. His soft expression turns wary, even a little annoyed. His hand, where it lay on the grass, grips it tightly.
“What?” he asks blatantly.
“Thought I might take a stroll.” Ivan walks up to lightly kicks Till’s leg. “You’re kinda in the way.”
Till raises his brows, offended, to which Ivan grins, though he quickly drops it when Till, grumbling, retreats further against the tree instead of throwing an insult or kicking back.
This makes Ivan hum with interest. He takes a seat next to Till, careful to find a dry spot so as not to dirty his clothes. The silence drapes over them comfortably before Ivan asks, “Having trouble sleeping?”
Till fidgets with the fabric of his shirt, balling it into the death grip of his fist. “It’s not that,” he mumbles against his knees. Ivan is, if only a little, glad for the lack of eye contact, as he’s trying his very best to keep his smile from getting any wider, but it’s difficult when Till’s pouting face is so undeniably endearing.
Ivan sways left and right, stretching his words out. “Then, what could it be?” After a moment, he abruptly stops and says, “Oh!” lifting a finger and pointing it to Till, he snidely asks, ”You didn’t get anything today, did you?”
Till freezes, eyes wide. He quickly hides his face between his knees, though the red in his ears is proof of his embarrassment.
Ivan snickers, receiving an elbow to his side as punishment.
“If you’re here just to laugh at me, asshole, then you better get going on your way.”
“There’s no need for that. I was just surprised. I mean, you’re ever the charmer.” Ivan receives a second blow. “And I didn’t realize this sort of thing meant so much to you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Clearly.” He swiftly dodges the attack this time, responding by leaning his full weight onto a disgruntled Till, butting the sides of their heads together. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t get anything either.”
“Why would it make me feel better to know I’m grouped with a loser like you?” Till says but lifts his head up enough to look back at Ivan, which is a win in his book.
“So mean!” Ivan lifts himself off Till, who, rubbing his finally free shoulder, narrows his eyes at Ivan. “And here I was looking to pass on someone’s card to you,” Ivan sighs dramatically and watches Till perk up.
Skeptically, he says, “That’s not funny.”
In response, Ivan presents a blue card, and Till immediately makes a move to grab it, but Ivan reacts quickly, raising his hand out of reach.
“Ah, come on now, don’t you wanna thank me for the delivery first?” Ivan sings-songs, reaching his arm further and further back as Till starts climbing him in order to reach it.
“Give it to me already!”
“I didn’t even tell you who it’s from yet!”
Eager, Till finally seizes the card and pulls away, frowning at the small creases in the paper.
“Wait a minute,” he mumbles, turning the card over to see the rudimentary stickmen drawing of him and Ivan with contrastingly neat handwriting above it saying “I care about you.”
Ivan smiles innocently as Till continues to stare at it, a little dumbfounded but mostly scrutinizing.
“Hm, what do you think of it? I tried my best, but I’m no genius artist.” Ivan nudges him.
“What is this?”
“I did say you should wait to see who it’s from.”
Till finally lowers the card to look at Ivan with a difficult expression to read. Some sort of disappointment most likely. Ivan meets it with a gleeful, “Me! Happy Caring Day! Or Shape Card Day? Did we ever decide on a name for it.”
Eyebrows furrowed, Till sits back down beside him. “What does a rectangle mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Ivan admits, “But it’s sort of how I feel about you, I think. Would’ve you preferred a heart, like in the storybook?” He raises his brows. Till answers with a flustered glare.
“You know,” Ivan pushes, “I don’t have a birthday, but it’s my adoption anniversary, so close enough, right?”
Till raises a confused eyebrow until Ivan gestures to his lips, tapping them slowly. Till’s blank face is jolted alive into a troubled scowl.
“Hey, a deal’s a deal!” Ivan pokes him.
“I only said I’d think about it… And anyway, it’s not even really your birthday!” Till says nervously, looking away from Ivan, who’s beyond delighted at his reaction.
But then, Till is quiet for a moment, eyes glued to the card in his hands.
Intrigued, Ivan looks over. “Is it really that bad?”
Till doesn’t respond. He just looks up at Ivan with a strange skittish determination.
“What is it?” Ivan finds he’s starting to feel a bit nervous himself as Till starts getting closer.
Till stops, seemingly contemplating where his hands should go before deciding the grass is as good a place as any.
When Till looks up to him again, Ivan's confident smile wobbles, and he blurts, “I was just kidding!”
Till gulps. ”Don’t make me regret this more than I already do.”
He then proceeds, pauses, pulls back, tilts his head a bit to the right. With evident confusion, he shuts his eyes tightly and bumps their faces, and lips, together uncomfortably. Ivan feels Till wince against him, letting out a cold breath.
Ivan finds himself entirely enthralled by a growing throbbing chorus circling through his heart and lungs, searching for something he’s not so sure existed before this very moment.
In response, he pulls back ever so slightly just to adjust his head and give them a chance to meet again, a little more gently. This time, Till relaxes against him, into him.
By now, Ivan’s chest is drumming loudly, painfully, and with elation as he reaches a hand to cradle Till’s face. However, at the faintest touch, Till quickly pulls back and gets up. He leaves a stunned Ivan, realizing that he blotched his knees and sleeves with dirt.
Lightly kicking him before leaving, Till says, “There. You can take your dumb stroll now. Don’t bother me about this anymore,” though his voice betrays no emotion in particular.
Ivan blinks, pulling his hand back from where it would’ve rested on Till’s face to find his finger bleeding from a thin paper cut. Still, Ivan raises it to touch his lips.
Putting their lips together, one last incomplete product of the Sygien’s system. It’s impossible to understand why it continuously appeared in media from Earth.
And yet, despite the fact that it lightened, the feeling in his chest still remains, and it’s for no Sygien to examine or evaluate. It’s his, and his alone. He carefully notes its details in his mind, making sure he’ll be able to recall this exact memory as he watches Till’s figure get smaller and then disappear into the small building that holds their cramped chambers.
To think, Ivan almost started feeling bad for getting rid of the others’ cards for him and Till earlier today.