Archive of Our Own ^beta

Till had never once allowed himself to believe that anyone could see him as the center of their world. The thought seemed so foreign, so unreachable, especially coming from someone like Ivan. How could Ivan, of all people, look at him as if he were the answer to everything, the very core of his universe? Till, the fragile and broken boy, constantly torn down and punished, rejected even by those who were supposed to care for him. He had been labeled as a “black sheep,” a worthless thing, fit only to be tossed aside or treated with disdain. His alien guardian’s harsh words echoed in his mind—“undesirable for a human-pet”—and Till had come to believe them. He wasn’t meant to be loved or seen as anything more than a discarded thing.  

Yet Ivan, despite the cold distance that surrounded him, would look at Till as if he were something far beyond the battered shell of a person that he saw himself to be. Ivan’s gaze was filled with such intense admiration, as though Till held the secrets of the universe itself, as if his existence was the key to every mystery. It was a gaze that left Till feeling both humbled and bewildered. Could Ivan truly see him this way? Could he really view Till, broken and bruised, as someone worth cherishing, someone worth everything?  

It was an idea so foreign, so impossible, that it made Till’s heart ache. How could someone like Ivan, who had everything—the composure, the quiet strength, the skill to capture the attention of those around him—how could he look at Till, a mere shadow of himself, and think of him as his world? There were days when Till thought he was nothing more than a piece of debris in the vast emptiness, just waiting to be swept away, but Ivan’s gaze told a different story. It told a story where Till was everything, the axis around which the universe spun. And in those moments, Till could hardly breathe under the weight of that thought. How could he, someone so broken, deserve such devotion? How could Ivan, who had his own wounds, his own battles, possibly find solace in someone like him?

But Ivan did. And that was the truth Till could never quite reconcile—the truth that, to Ivan, Till was not just a damaged soul. He was everything.

To Ivan, Till was a god on Earth—something far beyond mere mortal understanding. He had always excelled in his studies, his mind sharp and disciplined. He understood the concepts of gods, the teachings of countless deities across religions. He could recite passages from sacred texts with ease, his knowledge vast and deep. Yet, none of the gods he studied ever held a candle to Till. They were just figures, abstract entities spoken of in distant tales and rituals. To Ivan, they were nothing more than words on a page, a fleeting image in the minds of others. But Till—Till was real. Till was here, in front of him, breathing, living, existing in a way no god could ever replicate. He was tangible, fallible, and yet utterly divine in Ivan's eyes.

Ivan watched Till with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He couldn’t help it. Till had become his universe, the only thing that mattered in the grand scheme of his life. The gods he’d learned about, discussed, and even admired in class paled in comparison to the living, breathing miracle before him. In Ivan’s eyes, Till was all-encompassing, the divine figure who held all the answers and all the mystery of the world within himself. 

It wasn’t just the way Till looked, though. It was the way he existed—how Till was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, lost in his art or whatever he happened to be doing at the time. He didn’t know how Ivan saw him, didn’t know how much the boy would sacrifice to be close to him. Ivan had learned that if he was patient enough, if he watched just long enough, he could slip into Till’s orbit. Till’s focus would always shift, a momentary distraction, and that’s when Ivan would move closer. He’d inch his way into Till’s personal space, into his life, just a little more with each passing day. 

Till was so wrapped up in his world, so oblivious to the quiet reverence in Ivan’s eyes, that he never pushed Ivan away. Even when Ivan would stand so close, sometimes even looking directly at him, Till never seemed to notice. Perhaps it was because Ivan had learned the art of blending into the background, becoming part of the scenery in a way that made his presence unnoticed. Perhaps it was because Till was simply lost in whatever was happening inside his mind at the moment. 

But Ivan didn’t mind. He was patient. Every small victory, every moment where Till’s attention shifted just enough for him to sneak into his space, was worth it. For Ivan, it wasn’t just about being near Till. It was about the idea of being *with* him, of somehow existing in the same universe, orbiting in the same space. Ivan didn’t need Till to notice him at all times. All he needed was to be there, to stand in Till’s shadow, to be close enough that even if Till never acknowledged him, Ivan knew he was always there. And that was enough—for now. 

To Ivan, this was devotion, this was worship. It wasn’t about asking for anything in return; it was about living in the presence of a god. And if Ivan could stay close enough, maybe—just maybe—he could be a part of Till’s world, even if only from the edges, basking in the warmth of Till’s attention when it happened to fall his way.

Alien Stage was not just a show—it was a brutal game of life and death, where survival meant either winning or losing everything. To survive, you had to sing, to entertain the alien audience who held your fate in their hands. Only the rare few were chosen to participate, and the show came around only once every ten human years, a terrifying, infrequent spectacle that brought together the most broken and desperate humans from across the galaxy. The stakes were unimaginable, the pressure unbearable, and the competitors had only one goal: to win, to keep living.

For Ivan and Till, the experience was a strange mixture of fear and determination, though they each approached the game with vastly different perspectives. They had been thrust into this nightmare, forced to compete against others in a life-or-death contest they had no say in. Till, ever the reluctant participant, saw the show for what it truly was: a cruel, senseless farce. It was nothing but a game for the aliens to play with them, nothing but a way to amuse themselves at the expense of human lives. But Till had no choice. He was dragged into it by his alien guardian, forced to play the part, to participate, to fight for his life. He could resent it all he wanted, but in the end, it was all about survival. There was no escape. There was only one way out—and that was to win. So, he sang, his heart heavy with the weight of it all, knowing that his only hope for freedom was to conform, to do what he was told.

Ivan, on the other hand, had a very different perspective. He had no grand opinions on the show, no complex thoughts about its purpose or the cruelty of it all. He didn't care about the aliens, their twisted games, or their idea of entertainment. What mattered to Ivan was one simple thing: he was here with Till. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment he had longed for. Being thrust into this arena with Till, his god, was the greatest gift he could have ever received. 

For Ivan, the show wasn't about winning for himself. It was about winning for Till. Till was his god, his universe, and all Ivan wanted was to make him happy. He had no desire for fame or glory, no hunger for victory beyond the simple desire to see Till smile, to see Till succeed. If it meant winning the competition, Ivan would do whatever it took to make that happen. And in the event that the two of them competed directly, Ivan would hold nothing back—he would let Till win. After all, what was a victory to him when it came to Till? Nothing. Till was everything. And Ivan was content to live in the shadows, forever in awe of the one who could do no wrong. 

Ivan’s thoughts were simple: he would survive, but only for Till. He would sing, he would fight, he would entertain the aliens if it meant keeping Till alive, if it meant ensuring that the god he had placed on a pedestal remained in his world. Survival was secondary. All that mattered was Till.

The competition was already starting to take a toll on everyone involved. One by one, the competitors fell, each loss more brutal than the last. The arena had already claimed its first victim: Sua, a girl from the same garden training facility that both Ivan and Till had once attended. Her performance had been fierce, and she had fought with everything she had—but it wasn’t enough. She lost by a single point. The punishment for losing was swift and unforgiving. Sua was shot, her life snuffed out in an instant. It was a chilling reminder of what awaited those who failed to entertain the alien audience.

Mizi, another girl from the garden, had always been close to Sua. Her bond with her was palpable, and everyone could see it. Mizi viewed Sua as her world, her universe, and it showed in every interaction they had. The way they supported each other, the way they shared quiet moments in the chaos of the game—it was clear to anyone who paid attention that Sua meant everything to Mizi. So when Sua fell, Mizi was left shattered. The loss was unbearable, and her grief was impossible to ignore.

But the competition didn’t stop there. Three more contestants went down. Two were from the same garden facility as Mizi and Sua, and the other came from a different one altogether. The losses kept piling up, each one a sobering reminder of the stakes they were playing for. By the end of Round 4, after a grueling day of survival, the number of competitors had dwindled even further.

Then came Round 5. This round would prove to be the most chaotic, the most unpredictable of all. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with the anticipation of what was to come. The crowd was on edge, as the aliens had made it clear they were not interested in just another performance—they wanted something raw, something real. And that’s exactly what they got.

Mizi, driven by the pain of her loss, began to lash out. In a moment of sheer rage and desperation, she assaulted Luka, one of the remaining competitors. The crowd roared in excitement as the scene escalated into violence, but this was just the beginning of the spectacle. The aliens, who had been watching intently, decided to make Mizi their next target. They aimed for her, and just as quickly as the violence had erupted, Mizi disappeared from sight. 

The arena was thrown into confusion. Was she dead? Had she escaped? No one knew for sure. The sudden disappearance left everyone in suspense, and the tension in the air became almost unbearable. The aliens, sensing an opportunity for further chaos, put the entire show on hold. The search for Mizi began, but the question of whether she was alive or dead remained unanswered. The uncertainty and fear rippled through the remaining competitors, none of them knowing if they would be next or if the game would ever resume.

Alien Stage, for the moment, was suspended. The search for Mizi overshadowed everything else, and the focus shifted to finding her—dead or alive. The aliens, usually so indifferent to the suffering of the humans, were now actively searching for one of their own contestants, further adding to the unsettling nature of the event. No one knew if the show would continue as planned or if something far darker was unfolding right before their eyes. The stakes had escalated, and the competitors could only wait in silence, unsure of what would happen next.

The weeks following Mizi’s disappearance were grueling, a suffocating weight that hung over the remaining competitors. News reports on Mizi flooded the airwaves, each one speculating, sensationalizing, and deepening the mystery of her fate. The exposure, the constant reminders, made Till want to retreat into himself. The world around him became a blur, and his usual defiant, spunky personality seemed to dissipate in the face of the uncertainty and fear that clung to the air. He had always been a fighter, but now he found himself exhausted, unable to summon the energy to push back against the oppressive reality. His rebellious spark had dulled, though he still carried a simmering anger.

Till, even the difficult one, refused to sing for the alien audience, stubbornly withholding the entertainment they demanded. It was a small act of defiance, but it didn’t go unnoticed. His guardian—his captor—was quick to react. Till had been manhandled before, but this time, the consequences felt more suffocating. His resistance was met with force, as he was dragged to a table, restrained, and shown an article about Mizi. The cold, clinical words on the page were a painful reminder of the reality they lived in, and his captor's words were just as harsh: "If you don't behave, you'll be the next one to disappear."

The threat, while chilling, didn’t break Till’s spirit. Rage boiled in him, and in that moment, it was all-consuming. He swung the bottle in his hand, attempting to fight back, his movements fueled by pure fury. It was a desperate, reckless act. But it was short-lived. The alien, overpowering and ruthless, easily subdued him once more. Till was forced back onto the table, his collar tightened around his neck, but this time, there was something different about it. This collar was no ordinary restraint. It was laced with something that made him feel numb, docile—an overwhelming sense of submission that clouded his thoughts. 

What followed was a blur. The edges of his awareness felt distant, like he was watching himself from far away, trapped in his own body. The drugged haze took over, and what happened next—what the collar's effects induced—was a painful, humiliating experience. His body was no longer his own. The assault was unspoken, implied by the actions that took place in that haze, leaving Till in a state of confusion and numbness. He could not escape, his mind too cloudy to fight back, and the consequences of his defiance were exacted in ways that left him lost in the aftermath. The fog of the drug dulled his emotions, and when it finally lifted, Till was left with the terrible realization of what had transpired, his mind reeling from the overwhelming violation he had been subjected to.

It was a nightmare, one that left him broken in ways he didn’t know how to express. All he could do was endure, as the alien forces continued to manipulate, control, and humiliate him. It was a familiar cycle of abuse, but now, it was more suffocating than ever before. The weight of it pressed down on him with every breath, making it hard to remember who he even was before it all started.

Ivan knew he would find Till here. The commotion had been unmistakable, the distant crash of glass and the sharp sounds of conflict cutting through the otherwise quiet night. Ivan had just finished entertaining his guardian and their wife at a nearby bar. It was their anniversary, and while he sang for their amusement, his mind was elsewhere—always elsewhere. Alien Stage was set to resume in a few days, and Ivan’s guardian trusted him enough to make his way back to their home or the facility without supervision. But the sounds from the nearby bar had piqued his interest, pulling him away from the carefully constructed façade of obedience.

The closer he got, the more certain he became. The broken glasses scattered outside, the faint damage to the entrance, and the lingering tension in the air—it all pointed to one thing. This was the place. Pushing the door open, Ivan stepped inside, scanning the dimly lit room. His eyes landed on the figure slumped on the floor, his heart tightening even as his face remained impassive. There he was. Till. His god. 

Till’s small frame was crumpled, his clothes disheveled, torn in places, and his skin bore the telltale signs of struggle. The collar around his mouth—one Ivan hated more than anything—sat tight and out of place, its presence like a cruel mockery of the freedom Till had once dreamed of. Drugs clung to the air, their bitter scent assaulting Ivan’s senses as he approached in long, deliberate strides. Kneeling beside Till, Ivan unlocked the wretched device with a calm precision, tossing it carelessly aside as his attention shifted entirely to the unconscious boy before him.

For a moment, Ivan simply stared. Till was still, his breathing shallow but steady. Despite the state he was in, there was a strange tranquility to his face, one Ivan recognized from years past. He had seen Till like this before, in the quiet moments of their shared childhood. Till would run tirelessly through the gardens, only to collapse in exhaustion, his chest rising and falling as sleep claimed him. Ivan had watched him then, too. He would sneak into the areas where Till slept, lying down just close enough to feel his presence, but always leaving before Till awoke. It had been enough back then, but now? Now it was different.

Ivan reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it cupped Till’s face. His skin was warm, soft, but marred by the evidence of his suffering. The boy Ivan revered—the god he had worshipped for as long as he could remember—was broken, but still achingly beautiful in his eyes. Lowering his forehead to Till’s, Ivan let out a deep, shuddering sigh, his breath mingling with the stillness of the room. He nuzzled him gently, an act of reverence and desperation. The affection was tender, a silent plea that conveyed everything he could not say aloud.

Memories of their near escape flooded his mind, sharp and painful. He could still see the meteor shower painting the sky with brilliance, a fleeting reminder of the freedom that had been within their grasp. They had been so close—so close. But Till had looked back, his gaze drawn to the place they both hated yet could not escape. He had turned away from freedom, and Ivan, devoted as ever, had followed him. He had followed his god back into captivity, sacrificing everything to stay by his side.

Now, with Alien Stage demanding their lives for the entertainment of others, Ivan felt the weight of their fate pressing down on him. They were to face each other in the next round. It wasn’t a matter of wanting or not wanting—it was inevitable. And Ivan already knew what he would do. If it came to it, if it meant Till could keep going, he would sacrifice himself without hesitation. It was the only way he could repay the god who had unknowingly given his life meaning.

But for now, in this moment, Ivan allowed himself to simply exist beside Till. No expectations, no competition, just the quiet, fragile connection between them. He would protect Till, even if it meant destroying himself.

This was not how Ivan had planned it—not at all. He had envisioned something quieter, something less desperate, but plans meant little now. Cloaked in black, the fabric clinging to his form like the stories of old—those about the hunchback of Notre Dame—Ivan ran. His shoulders hunched under the weight of his god, Till, who was slumped unconscious against his back. Each step was deliberate yet frantic, his boots pounding against the cold metal pathways. To any observer, he might have appeared like a shadowy phantom, gliding through the night with an almost otherworldly determination.

Ivan felt nothing. At least, that’s what he told himself. His expression remained stoic, his dark eyes fixed on the path ahead. Inside, his heart hammered against his ribs, but it was not fear—it was duty. This was for Till. Always for Till. His god had given him meaning, purpose, and now, Ivan would repay him the only way he knew how: by ensuring his survival, even if it meant his own ruin.

He knew of a rebellion. Whispers and fragments of conversation had reached his ears over the years, tales of humans fighting back against their alien captors. Ivan had seen the logo they bore—a bold insignia of red and black, stark against the bleakness of captivity. He had observed their movements on rare nights when he was allowed to walk unaccompanied. They were discreet but determined, slipping between the cracks of the alien's oppressive control. Ivan had pieced together enough to know where he might find them, where they might be gathering tonight.

The docking station loomed ahead, its metallic walls dimly lit by flickering lights. Cargo ships lined the area, some loading supplies, others preparing for departure. Ivan moved with the silence of a shadow, his every step calculated, his every breath controlled. He located the ship he needed—one marked with subtle signs of the rebellion—and carefully approached. His years of sneaking around the facility served him well; the guards were none the wiser to his presence.

Inside the ship’s dimly lit cargo hold, Ivan gently lowered Till onto a stack of crates. His movements were meticulous, as though handling something sacred. Till's disheveled appearance pained him, but Ivan pushed the emotion aside. There wasn’t time for sentiment. From his pocket, he retrieved a small piece of paper, scrawled with a message in his precise handwriting. He tucked it into Till’s hand, folding his fingers around it with care. 

The note read:  

"Please, ensure his safety, not just for himself, but for me as well, as to me, he's more then words can describe"

Satisfied, Ivan took a moment to kneel beside his god. His stoic mask faltered for the briefest of moments as he leaned in, pressing a reverent kiss to the back of Till’s hand. Then another to the nape of his neck, soft and lingering. His cheek, warm despite the chill of the air. Finally, his forehead, where he allowed his lips to rest for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Each touch was an act of worship, a silent prayer of devotion and farewell.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, the words barely audible. "But you’ll be safe now."

With that, Ivan rose, his face once again a blank slate. He slipped out of the cargo hold as silently as he had entered, weaving his way back through the shadows. The ship would depart soon, carrying Till far away from this hell. Far away from Ivan.

By the time he returned to his guardian’s home, he had resumed his usual, emotionless demeanor. No one suspected a thing. No one questioned him. To the world, Ivan was as he had always been: obedient, unremarkable, and loyal to his alien overseers. But deep inside, he carried the weight of his actions, the knowledge that he had sent his god to safety while resigning himself to his own inevitable fate.

And yet, there was no regret. For Ivan, sacrificing himself was the ultimate act of devotion. His god would live, and that was all that mattered.

"Till! Till, wake up!" a frantic voice pulled Till from the edges of unconsciousness. His body stirred, reluctant to rise, but the unfamiliar environment forced him awake. His teal eyes darted around, taking in the room that was nothing like the cold, sterile holding cells he was used to. The absence of his collar was the first thing he noticed, his hand instinctively reaching for his neck. 

Where was he? How had he gotten here? Panic began to bubble, his mind racing with fragmented thoughts.

"W-what?" he managed to croak, his voice hoarse.

"Till!" The same voice called again, and this time, his eyes found its source. Mizi. The pink-haired girl he’d adored from afar for so long, the one he thought he might never see again. Alive, breathing, and standing right before him. Relief washed over him, but it was fleeting, overtaken by an inexplicable pang of disappointment. Why had he hoped to see Ivan instead?

“Mizi—” he began, his voice trembling, but she cut him off sharply.

"You're awake! But we have no time! Quick! We have less than 24 hours." 

Before he could process her words, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him from the bed. Disoriented and half-asleep, Till let her drag him through the unfamiliar corridors. He wasn’t entirely sure where they were going—honestly, he didn’t care. His mind was preoccupied with questions. How had he gotten here? And where was Ivan? The ache of uncertainty gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on the present.

Eventually, Mizi pulled him into a room—a meeting room, by the looks of it. The air inside was tense, charged with anticipation. He recognized no one, but, the woman speaking with authority at the front, he had an aura about her that Till felt the influence of, and a few other figures who seemed to be part of this rebellion Mizi had joined. 

"Till, meet the team. We're planning a mission to shut down Alien Stage for good," Mizi explained, gesturing to the group.

As Hyuna launched into the details of the operation, Till tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting. He caught fragments of the plan—a raid, infiltration, sabotage. The others were committed, their resolve palpable, but Till struggled to match their energy. He was tired, physically and emotionally, and the weight of recent events hung over him like a storm cloud.

"We should bring Till," Mizi suddenly suggested. "He might be able to help—"

"No," Hyuna interjected firmly. "We just got him here. We can't risk him being captured or injured. It's too dangerous."

"But Hyuna—!"

"Mizi, I admire your determination, but no. Till stay here. End of discussion." Hyuna cast a brief glance at Till, her tone softening slightly. "It's for the best."

The room fell quiet, and the plan resumed. Till, still sluggish, half-listened, letting the information wash over him without fully absorbing it. Yet, to his surprise, bits and pieces stuck—a testament to the sharp mind he often underestimated.

"Till..." Mizi’s voice pulled him back to reality. He looked at her, distracted but attentive enough to respond.

"Mm?" he hummed.

"Can you pass me my puffer jacket?" she asked. He blinked, then, almost on autopilot, grabbed the green sleeveless jacket draped over a nearby chair and handed it to her.

"Will you be okay? Being alone, I mean," she asked, her concern evident.

Till forced a lopsided grin—though it looked more like a grimace. "Yeah. Hyuna gave me a few upkeep chores around the base. I’ll manage." His tone was distant, distracted.

"I wish you could come. You’d be helpful..." Mizi murmured, adjusting her fringe awkwardly.

Till shrugged. "I’ll be fine. You’ve been with the rebellion for what, a few weeks? And you’re already part of a big operation. Good luck, and stay safe." His words were polite, but his heart wasn’t in them.

Mizi hesitated, her golden-hazel eyes searching his face. "Till... are you thinking about... Ivan?"

At the mention of the name, Till stiffened, his expression darkening. "Don’t," he said curtly, cutting her off. "I don’t want to talk about him. Go. You’re being called."

Mizi sighed but didn’t press further. Before leaving, she grabbed Till’s hands, squeezing them tightly. It was a gesture meant to comfort, but as her touch lingered, Till realized something unsettling. Where her hands used to bring warmth, a spark of life—now, they left his skin cold. Ice cold. 

As she walked away, Till stared at his hands, the chill spreading through him like a cruel reminder of everything he’d lost. Ivan’s absence loomed larger than ever, and for the first time, he wondered if the warmth he once felt could ever return.

Till stayed far from the commotion when the mission team departed. While the other members of the rebellion gathered at the dock, cheering, waving, and shouting words of encouragement, Till watched from a shadowed corner, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The noise and energy of the crowd didn’t draw him in—it only amplified the ache in his chest. He felt disconnected, like a misplaced piece in a puzzle that didn’t belong.

The first three hours after their departure were filled with tasks Hyuna had assigned him. He threw himself into the work, trying to drown out his thoughts. He helped with collecting food supplies, meticulously organizing materials, and tidying up the common areas—the bar, kitchen, and lounge. Cleaning gave his hands something to do, though his mind continued to wander.

Hyuna had also insisted he find more appropriate clothes, sending him to “steal” from Dewey and Isaac’s closets. Though the term was more of a joke, Till couldn’t shake the feeling of intrusion as he sifted through their belongings. He ended up picking out a shirt that fit better than the oversized one he’d been wearing, an old grey hoodie that had seen better days, and a pair of cargo pants that fit snugly. While rummaging, he also found a few accessories—a couple of silver chain bracelets, a simple black choker he fastened too quickly, and a pair of fingerless gloves that were a little big but adjustable. He kept these for himself, almost as a form of quiet rebellion.

As the hours passed and his tasks dwindled, Till found himself with nothing to do. He attempted to interact with a few members of the rebellion, but his closed-off demeanor made it difficult. He wasn’t looking for friendship, and his clipped responses ended conversations as quickly as they started. Eventually, he stopped trying and began to roam the base instead.

In one corner of the common room, he stumbled across some pens and paper left forgotten on a table. It was a small discovery, but it lit a spark of interest. He gathered the supplies, settled onto a couch in the corner, and began to draw.

At first, he drew what he knew: scenery from the garden he and Mizi had grown up in, the alien architecture he’d seen, and small snapshots of people he remembered. Mizi appeared on the page a few times, her pink hair and soft smile a bittersweet reminder of the past. But gradually, his drawings began to center on one person: Ivan.

He didn’t know why Ivan became the focal point. It wasn’t intentional, but once he started, he couldn’t stop. He sketched Ivan’s sharp features, the haunting intensity of his eyes, and the way his hair framed his face. He even drew Ivan in moments he had only imagined—smiling faintly, standing proud, or staring back at Till with a look of unspoken understanding. 

Page after page filled with images of Ivan. Till worked until the pen ran out of ink, the soft scratching of its tip against paper fading into silence. By then, his hands were smudged with ink, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Without realizing it, he leaned back into the couch, his drawings scattered around him, and drifted off to sleep.

In his dreams, the images he had drawn came to life. Ivan’s piercing gaze lingered in his mind, watching him silently, as if asking a question Till didn’t know how to answer.

The escape was chaos incarnate. Multiple vehicles—bikes, scooters, and cars of various makes and states of repair—sped down the dimly lit roads. The roar of engines and the screech of tires echoed in the night as the group fled from the pursuing aliens. The operation had been a success, better than any of them could have anticipated. Alien Stage was disrupted, key systems were destroyed, and Mizi had even managed to rescue Ivan mid-performance. 

The plan had gone slightly off-script when Luka was caught in the crossfire. The bullet, meant for Ivan, struck Luka instead. But Mizi’s quick thinking and reflexes saved Ivan. She had pulled him off the stage just in time, their narrow escape marked by a flurry of panicked movement and blaring alarms. 

“Mizi? You’re alive—” Ivan’s words were cut short as they ducked behind the stage curtains.

“Ivan, now is not the time! We gotta get out of here, and FAST!” Mizi barked, urgency dripping from her every word.

That was all Ivan needed to hear. Without hesitation, he grabbed Mizi’s hand, pulling her through the backstage corridors as chaos erupted around them. It felt like déjà vu, though the roles were reversed—this time, it was Mizi he was guiding to safety. Her sharp commands over her communicator summoned the rest of the team, who burst onto the scene to facilitate their escape.

The front of the venue was pure bedlam. Vehicles screeched into place, and the group scrambled aboard. Ivan ended up riding with a guy whose ashy blonde hair stuck out in wild tufts, while Mizi hopped onto the back of a scooter driven by a sharp-eyed woman with short brown hair. 

"Sharp left, now!" came the voice of the lead escapee, barking directions as they navigated the narrow streets and tried to shake their alien pursuers. 

Ivan kept his gaze sharp, leaning with the movements of his ride as they tore through intersections and side roads. The group’s coordination was tight, honed by their shared desperation and training, but the alien forces were relentless. 

The chase stretched for what felt like hours, the vehicles twisting through alleyways and highways in a game of cat and mouse. At one point, an alien vehicle almost clipped the side of Ivan’s bike, but the blonde-haired driver swerved sharply, narrowly avoiding disaster.

Eventually, as dawn began to break over the horizon, the group managed to outmaneuver their pursuers. The alien vehicles fell behind one by one, either losing sight of the rebels or being forced to retreat as the group neared the base's hidden location. 

The moment the base came into view—a dilapidated warehouse hidden within the forested outskirts—relief swept over the escapees. Vehicles screeched to a halt as the group dismounted, rushing to secure the perimeter and check on one another. 

Ivan climbed off the bike, his sharp black eyes scanning the area. He turned to Mizi, who was catching her breath after hopping off her ride.

“We made it,” Mizi exhaled, though her tone was wary. “But that was too close.”

Ivan didn’t respond immediately. His mind was already wandering—to Till. As the group began filing into the base, he hung back for a moment, staring at the rising sun. It painted the forest in hues of orange and gold, but he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the beauty. 

"Till…" he muttered under his breath, the name barely audible. Then, steeling himself, he followed the others inside.

Till had no idea when or how he had been moved to the couch. His last memory was of his head drooping over his sketches, his body succumbing to exhaustion as the hours stretched on. But now, he felt warmth beneath him, a jacket draped over his legs like a comforting shield. He stirred slightly, his senses half-awake, lulled by the gentle stroking of fingers through his hair. It was soothing, a touch so tender it made his drowsy mind consider surrendering to sleep again. But something—someone—was near, and that awareness pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

He grumbled softly, and the hand stopped. Slowly, Till opened his eyes, blinking away the blur until his surroundings came into focus. His gaze landed on the neat stack of drawings on the table, the pages he had poured his restless energy into before falling asleep. He was about to sit up when his breath caught at the sight before him.  

A figure loomed over him, quiet but unmistakably familiar. The grey jacket he had been wearing earlier now rested over his legs, and the figure's presence sent a chill down his spine—not of fear, but of disbelief.  

“Had a good sleep?”  

The voice was so familiar, so painfully close, it made Till curl inward instinctively. His body trembled, his mind racing to determine if he was still dreaming. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to hope. Yet the voice coaxed him out of his fragile shell, its timbre both soft and hauntingly resolute.  

He raised his eyes, and there he was. Ivan.  

Till froze, his breath hitching as his mind grappled with the reality of the moment. Ivan was here, flesh and blood, staring at him with an expression that teetered between relief and reverence. The air between them felt heavy, charged with emotions Till couldn’t name.  

“I… Ivan…” Till stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Without thinking, he moved, flinging himself forward into the only anchor he had. Ivan.  

Ivan caught him effortlessly, his arms wrapping around Till with a devotion so fierce it bordered on worship. He held him tightly, one hand cradling the back of Till’s head, the other pressing against the small of his back. This wasn’t just an embrace; it was an act of communion, of binding two fractured souls together in the only way they knew how.  

For Ivan, holding Till was everything. It wasn’t just about comfort—it was a manifestation of his faith, his purpose. This was his god, the one he had followed through fire and ruin, the one he had sacrificed for without question. To have Till in his arms was both a blessing and a test. He would hold him as long as Till allowed, would remain devoted for as long as his god deemed him worthy.  

Till didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch. Instead, he clung tighter, his fingers gripping the white fabric of Ivan’s outfit like a lifeline. Ivan saw this as a sign, a silent acknowledgment that he was permitted this closeness, this act of worship. His heart swelled with devotion, his mind already pledging further sacrifices to keep his god safe and content.  

But then, in a moment of pure selfishness, Ivan faltered.  

It was a thought he couldn’t suppress, a yearning that had festered for years. He had always served Till, always placed him above all else. But now, here in this fragile, sacred moment, he wanted something for himself. Something that wasn’t granted but taken.  

His hand moved to Till’s chin, tilting it upward with a gentle touch that spoke of both reverence and hesitation. Ivan’s black-and-red eyes roamed over Till’s features, committing every detail to memory as if this were the last time he would see him. The grey hair that framed Till’s face, the teal eyes that still shimmered with the remnants of sleep, the pale skin that seemed almost ethereal under the dim light—he was perfect. Perfect and untouchable.  

And yet, Ivan leaned in.  

His lips brushed against Till’s in a kiss that was as much an act of devotion as it was selfishness. It was soft, hesitant, as if Ivan expected to be struck down for his audacity. But he couldn’t stop himself; this was his prayer, his plea, his one moment of weakness.  

To his shock, Till didn’t pull away.  

Instead, Till kissed him back. It was tentative, unsure, but it was real. In that fleeting connection, the lines between god and worshiper blurred. Ivan was no longer just the devoted follower, and Till was no longer just the unattainable idol. They were simply two people, two broken souls seeking solace in each other.  

When the kiss broke, Ivan rested his forehead against Till’s, their breaths mingling in the charged silence. His hands trembled slightly as they cupped Till’s face, holding him as though he might disappear at any moment.  

“I’m sorry,” Ivan whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I shouldn’t have—”  

“Don’t,” Till interrupted softly, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions behind his teal eyes. “Don’t apologize.”  

For Ivan, those words were salvation. He closed his eyes, his hands still cradling Till’s face, and whispered a silent prayer of gratitude to the only god he had ever known.