Archive of Our Own

Fire doesn't burn the same way in the garden, but Ivan doesn't find it surprising.

For starters, the stones themselves feel too light in his hands. When Ivan tosses them up in the air, they go higher than they should. Even so, he waits for them to fall back down. Small and flimsy things like these, he trusts himself to catch. In his grasp, the edges of the stones are still slightly damp. It has only been a few minutes since he dug them out of the soil, after all. Ivan takes turns rubbing each stone against his wrists, little bits of mud sticking to the patch of skin that has yet to be marked. One of the stones gets caught on the underside of his sleeve, leaving a trace of brown. It's another stain on his otherwise spotless exterior that will go unseen.

Bringing the stones closer to his face, Ivan squints. There is a green fuzz growing all over them. Moss, Ivan would suspect, if his fingers were not already accustomed to its wispy texture. In the streets where nothing else grew, not even the children, moss had grown easily. But it never felt this dense under the pads of his thumbs. Perhaps each of its particles is another poor imitation, just like the rest of the stone. It appears that segyein cannot give them the privilege of touching real dirt either.

"Well?" A slight pressure on his spine makes him straighten up. Even without turning, he recognizes the culprit's long fingers, genetically spaced out to land on every key or string in a chord, but calloused of their own making. Each taped knuckle, the result of another night of hard work, is real in a way neither the stones nor the sun in this place could ever hope to be. "What's taking you so long?"

The fingers creep above Ivan's shirt, poking at his bare neck. The lack of a collar might grant him every other kind of freedom, but this he has never been able to escape.

Leashed by his own doing, Ivan tries not to move, just so the sensation may linger. Perhaps the humans from long ago would consider it romantic for a person to know another by touch alone. The truth is that he does not know much of anything else. Between peering over score sheets and memorizing the rhythm, he has spent hours watching these fingers drum across wrinkled pages, following a beat no one else can hear. The space between that ragged thumb and pinkie is simply the extent of his universe.

The segyein have put all of them through endless lessons on holding their breath when singing long notes, but Ivan's lungs keep up the practice every time he catches broken nails grazing the underside of a spoon or flower stem. Nevertheless, these are only minor transgressions. It is not as if he dreams of anything as grand as tenderly enclosing each digit within his own fists. In the quiet of his room, he only imagines holding them between his teeth. Nothing more than a dog with a bone.

"Go easy on me. It's been a while since I've done this, you know," Ivan hums, lowering the stones to the ground, where a dozen twigs have been balanced on top of one another. You remember those structures humans used to live in? Houses, weren't they called? Ivan had said to Till earlier, when he had begun stacking them. His hands may have been inept at weaving flowers into a crown, but the sticks he could manage. It was the kind of basal talent he had had enough practice for. This could be a roof? And these the walls. It was a rather dishonest comparison, but he had figured that it would help an artistic eye and a soft heart like Till's tolerate the jagged corners of the construction. That would be a really bad house, dumbass, Till had answered, crouching beside him. Look, isn't it falling apart already? And since when have any of us ever been inside an actual house?

Yet, by the time Ivan had returned from gathering the right stones, the twigs had been resting against each other much neater, and Till had refused to meet his eyes. Looking at them now, even Ivan can say that they resemble one of the human living quarters he has seen in his books. The houses that seem much more welcoming than the large and discordant buildings the segyein now reside in. It is just like Till to bring the impossible to life.

The twigs are necessary for the rest of the process, but Ivan still thinks it is a shame that they will soon go up in flames. Then again, it is just like him to destroy another beautiful thing that Till has made.

"I know that it's a little hard for you, but it's important to have patience, Till," Ivan says, bringing the stones close. When he feels the pinch on the back of his neck, he tries to keep his smile in place.

There is a line between the two of them. It has existed since the day they met. Till only became aware of it the night Ivan trespassed by taking his hand and breaking into a run. After Till had turned back, he had learned to keep to his own side. Ivan, who had long been toeing the line, had only gone back to doing so. Nothing further. He thought this was how the rest of their lives would go. But there were moments when Till crossed the line with a tug on Ivan's sleeve or the tip of his pencil poking Ivan's ear. In those moments, he made it over to Ivan's side so effortlessly, it took Ivan aback.

This is such a moment. As always, Ivan's lips end up curving in the wrong direction, his pointed tooth slipping free. The feeling in his chest is too twisted to be happiness, but it warps his face, anyway. Ever since he was a child, every muscle of Ivan's body has been tuned to fulfill the basic requirements for survival. Around Till, he no longer has a handle on them.

Because Ivan is who he is, he still tries to control what he can, striking the stones against each other with his hands. A spark alights between them for a second before it fades. But that is to be expected. The first attempt rarely ever brings results. He tries again, hitting the stones a little harder. And again. The third time, the spark burns brighter. With slight regret, Ivan brings it to the twigs, allowing it to spread all over. He only pulls back when each broken piece of wood begins to crackle.

A breeze blows past his cheek. For a second, the flames rise higher, and he hears Till inhale behind him. His years in the garden have taught him to tense up at the slightest possibility of danger. Ivan moves to the side, so he's partly in between the two. This way, Till has to first encounter a familiar threat before meeting an unfamiliar one. In the next second, the flames lower. Ivan knows they won't stray past their wooden borders again. He envies their restraint.

"Ivan! Were you being humble?" Mizi calls from under the tree, where she's sitting with her arms wrapped around Sua. The golden hues of the fire are almost as vivid as the ones in her pupils. Mizi beams at him the same way she does when he leans over her shoulder and writes down the answer to one of the questions on her homework sheet. Or when he lets her tie up his hair. In the garden, smiles are a social currency, and Mizi seems to live in abundance. With a slight tilt of her head, she gives them away to all their classmates, even if whatever smiles she receives in return are only half the width of her own. “Your fire show is as cool as ever!”

Back when Ivan had still been unfamiliar with the bend of his own mouth, he would tense up every time he was part of these exchanges. However, he soon realized that the gesture was not as heavy as he expected. As compensation, Mizi only needed him to explain a word she did not understand or wade into the river with her and choose a worthy shell for Sua. She was not seeking anything with deeper value. This meant the hollow curve of Ivan’s mouth was sufficient to fulfill each transaction.

Besides, he had needed all the practice he could get.

“You’re as generous with your compliments as ever, Mizi,” Ivan says, glancing at her. His lips have turned back upward, but he minds these motions much less when he has to direct them at the girl with pink hair. “You used to say that back then, too. I am glad you’re enjoying it at least.”

Ivan feeds another stick to the flames. The orange glow deepens. The ensuing wonder in Mizi’s eyes is easier to bear because he knows it is temporary. Unmatched in comparison to the wonder in her gaze when it is on Sua. Even now, she may be looking at him, but he knows how quickly she'll turn to Sua given the slightest indication. All Sua has to do is add any two numbers in her head and tell Mizi the solution. Ivan’s little fire spectacle will then become the second most magical thing in the universe.

"I still don't understand what the purpose of this is," Till says, and Ivan’s head tips closer to his voice. Like the smoke lifting from the flames, drifting toward the air currents, the shift of Ivan's body toward Till is only the natural progression of things. Perhaps he is the same as Mizi in this aspect. "But I guess it is a little cool. If you ignore the smell."

It is a common mistake to assume that fire is a fluke, but in the cramped nooks and crannies of his birthplace, Ivan had learned that it was a skill. There was an art to building a fire. A careful design. He had watched the older kids bring together scraps of paper, cigarette butts, and matchsticks. These would burn first, and they would burn faster. After all, when confronted with the flames, they stood no chance. Even the laws of physics only allowed the fittest to survive. Back then, the kids had waited for all the fragile objects to be consumed. Then, they had added the bigger slabs of wood, so the flames could keep eating at them longer.

Ivan soon discovered that fires could go all night long.

In the garden, there are no bigger slabs of wood. Gusts of wind can blow at any point, carrying twigs and stones away. Everything is more or less temporary. Out here, the fire fizzles. Feeble. Unnecessary. Like all the other things Ivan once brought with him. The tattered clothes on his back. An eye that could identify all the exits in the room moments after entering. Hissing aimed at anyone who tried to put their hands on him. In the garden, the fire only brings him applause from the other kids. Not another day to live.

No one here will stop by the fire and offer bread in exchange for the warmth. The bread, sanctioned by the segyein, will only be distributed in metal trays. But Ivan does not think that it is a bad thing, not when he can lean over during meal times and bite off the corners of Till's bread. The hunched form of his back over the table may not be as dignified, but it comes with a full stomach and Till's shoulder within reach.

In this moment, however, Ivan stares at the unneeded source of heat until his eyes water. He doesn't know what to make of it when he's not trembling. In a way, Till is right to be doubtful. The fire remains rather purposeless. Ivan, who no longer has to charr his fingers to fight off the frost, wonders if he should consider it an insult or a miracle.

The flames stutter. Till drops down next to him on the grass, and their knees touch. Warmth blooms along the point of contact.

No fire could ever compare.

***

In the slums, another day of existence could be bought for as little as a couple of discarded bottle caps.

Nothing came for free. When life assigned a group of people to circumstances so far below the market value, there was no choice but to put a price on everything. Even before Ivan learned to properly speak, he had learned how to barter. Two to three potatoes could be exchanged for a few slices of bread. Meat was not as worthy; there was too much of it available, and it was only to be utilized when the situation was dire. Half a cup of drainwater willingly given away could grant a safe place to rest. Children of similar ages could swap clothes they had each outgrown. Of course, this was only efficient up to a certain age. If someone lived longer than expected, they would have to make do with what they had.

Metal was the most precious resource. People born empty-handed could not afford to think of anything as scraps. There were those who camped by the road or sifted through garbage piles to gather crushed cans and leaking batteries from discarded objects. Even bottle caps would do. They could be taken back to makeshift homes and melded together into something new. It was here that Ivan had first seen what fire could do.

Like the first human who had learned to do, learning how to build a fire had allowed Ivan to build many other things. A stove to roast carrots and turnips. A forgery to sharpen knives. Even his hands and feet could be thawed until blood was running through his veins as it should. Fire drew both space beetles and humans. Every creature longed to keep warm. Many asked for a few hours of heat and gave him bread or fabric as payment. There had not been a lot to his name—including a name itself—but fire had made him a little rich.

Nevertheless, gravity was a certain thing. Ambition bigger than one’s means could only take one so far. The fall was always imminent. Because Ivan had dared to attempt an exchange so much larger than himself, even the measly bits of freedom he had saved for himself had been taken away. A value was finally assigned to him. It was quite a big sum; the segyein must have felt benevolent. So thoroughly hollowed out, he had no space in him for any other dreams.

Perhaps that was what Unsha had seen in his eyes that night. A resolute emptiness. Still struck by the sight of the faraway stars and equipped with a desire to prolong death a little longer, Ivan had put his hand in that much bigger hand.

In a way, being bought by Unsha had been a relief. From one businessman to another, Ivan could somewhat understand how his mind worked. All he had to do was keep up his end of the bargain. Stretch his sleeves all the way up to his wrists and keep his back straightened when all the eyes were on him. Take the music lessons and not flinch when nails the size of his arm brushed his hair. Round out his misshapen teeth with the rhymes and rhythms of Anakt Garden and say, Please and My apologies and I would like to take this opportunity to thank my guardian, Unsha, who has been generously supporting me.

In return, Unsha allowed Ivan to push the boundaries of their relationship, giving him glimpses into the world the segyein so tightly guarded.

The first few years, the questions had been smaller: What are the odds of a pet making it through to the auditions? Are there any special precautions I should take? What happens in the event that this doesn’t work out? Around his classmates, his words often failed him, but in front of Unsha, Ivan learned to regurgitate the kind of language spoken in his parties. Later, the questions got a little bigger: I would like to read more pet human literature so I can better understand the psyche of my fellow competitors. Would it be all right if I borrowed some of the books from that section of the library? Hours spent pouring over books, choosing the most polite and ambivalent words to make these requests. And much later, after biding his time, he had been able to ask the biggest questions: I’m curious about the collars the other pets wear. Could I know a little about how they function? I wonder if it might help in reading their moods during playtime... I would like to avoid unnecessary confrontations.

Unsha wasn’t stupid. He saw how Ivan pulled up his shirt collars as if he couldn’t stand the sight of the free skin of his neck. He had assumed that Ivan had no greater need for this information beyond simple curiosity. To a certain extent, he had been right. Ivan’s childhood had only taught him to take note of all items in a room that could be used as weapons. Actually using them was dependent on the degree of necessity. Ivan would have never found it necessary with just his own freedom on the line.

Then:

A flash of green eyes.

Throat thrumming with melodies even when restrained.

Fingers curled around the air, grasping the memory of guitar strings they were no longer allowed to play outside of class hours.

The scales tipping over into the deep end.

***

It happened in the garden. The garden, where the trees had more chances to grow taller than most of the children Ivan had once known. The garden, where no one had to line up and wait for their turn under the cool shade because there was enough to go around. The garden, where the river ran clear, and drinking from it did not make anyone sick. Ivan had never seen this much water in one place before.

For the first couple of weeks, Ivan had often wondered what the hell he was doing there, standing in his clean white uniform, free of any creases. Damp grass underneath his covered feet. Roaming without fear in the daylight. The only solace had been the knowledge that none of this was real. Even the floating leaves glitched when they were hit by the false sunshine at a certain angle.

But the children had been harder to get used to. In the garden, children did not negotiate with barbed treasures dug out of the rubbish. Instead, they exchanged the softened edges of their mouths and flowers woven into crowns. They hooked elbows and allowed their shadows to overlap even when there was no need to share body heat. They chased after each other across the lawns simply to evoke laughter. In the garden, the only reasons for hiding were the footsteps of the child who had finished counting to ten and was now on the lookout for everyone else.

By then, Ivan's hair had been cut short enough to be out of his eyes. The sleeves of his shirt barely crinkled when he bent his arm this way or that way. If he spilled something on them, there were more shirts in his room. His feet, neatly tucked in socks and shoes, would never cut themselves on a stray shard of glass again. But his tongue was still spiked inside his mouth. A mouth still twisted, unaccustomed to the typical shapes of joy.

Laden with Unsha's endorsements, Ivan still felt as poor as that child from the slums.

He had kept thinking of the inevitability of the stars. If all their fates were only at the distance of their outstretched arms and they would have to spend their time here gazing at the paper sky, what was the motivation for tracing the silhouettes of planets on each other’s backs during recess and trying to guess the names? On the couple of occasions it had happened to him, the touch had felt too tender and too strange.

Fingers skimming his flesh. A sudden awareness of being ticklish. The kind of discovery that came too late. His chest heaving vacantly, trying to produce a sound he had had no purpose for all his life.

Besides, even if he had let it out, would anything have changed?

***

Sua—doll-like, dull-eyed Sua—Ivan had thought might be like him. After all, she let her guardian squeeze her into frilly white dresses that flounced with every step. When she nodded, the ruffles of the bonnet bobbing along with her small head, its strings neatly tied in a little bow right under her chin. Ivan noted the wrongness of her features, the restricted movements of her pupils, nose, and lips in every expression. Real humans never expressed themselves in such symmetry.

It reminded Ivan of a mask. The kind one might carve into the skin of a pumpkin or a melon. Looking into the eye holes might feel similar to looking into the abyss. A face mirroring his own.

Then, a few days later, he had seen her forehead adorned in a flower crown, outside the confines of its coverings. Oh, he had realized, so that’s how it is. When another girl’s shadow fell over her, even Sua’s lips managed to rise above their limits. Perhaps the Venn diagram of misfortune Ivan had drawn so smugly could only be shared by two halves of himself.

He figured he was destined to stand on the sidelines, watching the other children run in circles around each other. One foot treating the circumference of delusion, but never truly being able to step in. The bones in his cheeks and the muscles around his mouth would not take any great leaps.

But it was Till who had beaten the contours of delight into Ivan’s face.

***

The first time it had happened, Ivan had stood stunned for a few seconds, loose petals still crumbling under his toes. The throbbing of his lips had felt so familiar, he almost expected to look up and find himself between the abandoned buildings of his past. Then the instinct kicked in, and he was throwing Till onto the ground. The glass barrier shattered, and his knuckles had finally made contact with another person’s flesh. Touch like this, he could manage.

The language of flowers might have forever remained a mystery to Ivan, but the language of the body he knew all too well. Not a lot of people realized that violence was also an exchange. A fist to the chin. Then an elbow to the ribs. A thigh trapped between shaking legs. The blunt force of an emotion far stronger than feeble happiness.

Finally, Ivan had thought, panting as he rolled over Till on the grass, white shirt stained just as it had been long ago. Dirty at last, he had no qualms laughing in the face of their shared bruises. Was that how ordinary children felt when they smiled with only half the effort?

Eventually, the teachers had separated them, but by then, the deal had already been sealed. Ivan ignored Unsha’s voice in his head, telling him: Remember, a business contract must only be finalized after all the clauses have been read. By then, the sting of the open cut on his chin had overlapped with the spark in Till’s gaze. It turned out that the segyein hadn’t removed every star from the sky in the garden, after all.

Just like that, Ivan was hanging from the edge of the rooftop again. Blood rushing to his head, his eyes fixated on the brilliance of the galaxies far away.

Here was what he knew from the start: The difference between fear and fascination was which way one decided to turn. But he had never been interested in moving forward or backward. Content with being rooted on the spot, Ivan would keep watching until there was no trace of him left behind.

***

At first, Till had been harder to negotiate with. A boy who wanted to grasp the entire universe with slippery hands. What could Ivan possibly give him? He had to figure out what loose change he could pull out of his pockets to get small returns. Punches couldn’t do the trick every time. So, he started taking little objects Till held so dear but could do without for a little while. Pencils. Erasers. Guitar strings and picks. Puddings served at dinner. Even the mouthpiece of his recorder. He wasn't attached to the materiality; he would eventually give them back. In return, he only wanted to be constantly rewarded with Till’s glare.

Perhaps someone else might deduce that Ivan was facing a constant loss, but it never truly felt that way. In the slums, there was a phrase for those who tried to take more than they required: Those who bite off more stalks of celery than they can chew. It was what everyone said when yet another person got caught while going back to the segyein trucks to get a few pieces of vegetables or fruits, even when they had already gotten enough on their first run. Mostly, it had been the celery that would do people in. Lush, green, and hard to grow in the dryness of the desert, it was a rarity to eat. In a place where a common cold could be a matter of life and death, the nutrients of the celery could help sustain the body through sickness, which was enough to tempt a person to risk an encounter with the segyein. It was typically parents who had turned around.

Ivan had never run back for the celery. He had hoarded the little turnips and sprouts under worn rags, the ones that often rolled out of people’s sacks and lay forgotten on the pavement. The hunger inside him was ever-present, but the need to vanquish it entirely, he had tamed. He could make do with what little was available at a time. Poking Till’s ribs in the middle of the line for dinner was just another example of that.

If he ever felt a part of him getting ahead of himself, he would put his chin on Till’s shoulder and ask him for something bigger. Always with a smile, sometimes his tongue sticking out. This way, Till would not wade past shallow waters:

A promise to touch lips. A request for a song. An offer to practice the greetings Till could then say to Mizi.

The possibility of escape.

It was a game only he knew they were playing. When Till refused, Ivan would be able to confirm his own place.

***

Still, greed was an ancient sin. Even Ivan’s husk of a heart was not exempt from it. There wasn't a lot he didn’t want from Till. His anger. His tears. His scoffs. His flush upon teasing. Even the snores in his ear when Till turned over on his side on the grass. These were the goods Ivan had won at the end of a very hard and long bargain. Still, the child who woke up in the middle of the night to chew on hidden turnips one after another, Ivan hoarded each instance of Till he got to witness. To say each moment was as ordinary as the one before was true. To say it was as rare as a comet passing the planet’s orbit once every 80,000 years was also true.

If he ever ran out of a continuous supply, at least he could peel back the rags and pull out the dusty memories he had stored underneath. He had learned to stretch rations over the years by consuming them slowly. He would try his best to make it last for the rest of his short lifetime.

Of course, there were gentler rewards. But Ivan didn’t have enough to offer as a counterbalance. When he came across a Till crumpled on the ground, he found himself floundering through his inventory of actions until he landed on one he had seen Till perform before. Even then, it felt too less and too clumsy to offer. Especially when in Till’s state, he might give Ivan something much more precious in return. That was why he held out until Till passed out and only then allowed his fingers to untangle grey hair or for his nose to nuzzle into tear-stained cheeks.

Ivan would not take anything from Till that Till could not consciously discard. Forehead flicks. Pencil shavings. Mumbled lyrics in his ear. Nothing more. But everything less.

Even the moments in which Till walked up to him and pushed his face into Ivan’s chest until his collar stopped flashing red or until Ivan took it off entirely—even those moments overflowed the small container that was inside his ribs. Their whole relationship was based on the laws of action and reaction. If Ivan had not performed an action of equal value, then receiving such a reaction seemed improbable.

A Till who came to him of his own will was a Till Ivan could not stand at all.

***

“So you’re really not going to tell us how you learned this?” Till says, frowning as he tosses a stick into the flames, pulling back when they flare. Fifteen minutes ago, he was pondering over the usefulness of the fire. Now, his eyes keep drawing back to it, widening whenever a new shade of yellow or orange shows up. Or so Ivan assumes. It has been this way ever since they were kids. Till’s awe is a sticky thing; it catches on every other object in his periphery. Ivan has seen him stare at the same green leaves for hours, turning them this way and that way, trying to imprint the interconnections of the veins between the pages of his sketchbook. Even the leaves they see in this garden every single day are not spared from his careful attention. “You’re always so secretive about these things. It’s like you’re up to no good.”

“Trust me, it’s a really boring story.” Ivan shrugs, brushing stray tufts of grass off his knees. Usually, in such a situation, he would make sure that his eyes stretched to a comparable extent as his lips, and then he would hold eye contact for at least five seconds before turning away. With Till, only half of these tactics would work. When Ivan glances at him, his eyes remain on him, unable to pull away. Such is the flaw in the plan. “I’ll tell you someday. Maybe when we are about to graduate and there is nothing else left to entertain ourselves with.”

Till looks away. He bites his lip, pulling his knees up to his chest. This way, the light on his collar can no longer be seen. Even without intending to do it, Ivan somehow still ends up putting a chip in the glass. Today, once again, he is just as surprised by how Till can care so much about so little.

It is not as if Ivan thinks of his past as a terrible secret he cannot share. Well, other than the fact that it would definitely make Till go quiet and damp-eyed. Ivan does not know what he would do if Till looked at him kindly out of consideration for a part of himself he had stopped being more than a decade ago.

Still, it is more so that his past is simply as unnecessary as the broken batteries that were stuffed under his robes when he was led out of the auction house. A few hours before the auction, they would have been currency. A few hours after the auction, Unsha’s men had patted him down and pulled them out. Ivan’s understanding of the segyein dialect had still been a little vague then, but even he had understood Unsha saying, _____ sneak it in, huh? You’re___ smart___. You don’t need ___ here. He had watched as Unsha had crushed the remains in his palms and thrown them inside an unmarked garbage bin. Unfamiliar with that area, Ivan would not have been able to pick out the bin even if he managed to go back there upon any kind of escape. In his own area, all the children had numbers for each bin. He supposed right then and there that the only valuable item he had with him had been destroyed in the blink of an eye.

Even years later, Ivan isn’t sure why he held onto the batteries, even after they put him inside the auction clothing. He had known it was of no use, and yet he had kept them with him just in case. He supposes it is an old habit. It is likely the same reason he still remembered the address the man he had met by the fire had given him, even tracing the words on the wall with his finger every other night.

Well, if you change your mind, you can head over to the ninth alley, the man had said, pulling the sleeping child in his lap closer to his chest. Ivan had wondered how it felt to be warm in this manner instead. My brother’s the boss. We might let you stay if you ask nicely. Back then, the only concern on Ivan’s mind had been food. Freedom was a fleeting concept, if such a thing even existed. A fight for the greater good was for those who had a full stomach. Ivan had taken the risk on an empty one, and it had not gone well for him.

After coming to Unsha’s house, Ivan had at least realized he would never go hungry again. At least beyond those diets they put him on every once in a while. There was no one stronger who would capture him as long as he nodded and shook his head when he was supposed to. The need for the information diminished, but he had not forgotten it the same way he hadn’t forgotten the point in a bigger human’s neck one could strike to knock them out. He had just never truly expected to do anything with it.

A single look at Till panting, crawling on the floor of the cave, sweat trickling down the side of his face, had been enough to change his mind.

Who else would have pushed themselves up to their quivering knees to achieve what all of them could barely envision? Perhaps that vague, sweet dream really existed somewhere. Ivan wasn’t certain what humans could even do with freedom, but he was certain that Till did not belong in this cave. Or the rest of the garden. So, he had pried out the winding turns of those nameless streets from his memories. Till would have a place running through them, he had known.

Ivan never considered how less appealing freedom might look if it came along with him.

Ivan never considered that perhaps Till was just as much a coward as he was. Perhaps the prospect of looming freedom was more monstrous than the wagyein he had faced in that cave.

“Then will you teach me how to do it?” Till asks now, reaching out to feed another stick to the flames. His body remains curled up, chin tucked in the space between his knees. It reminds Ivan of the times when they were much younger and Till would try to ask Ivan for solutions to the word problems in their general education classes because Till’s own sheet was covered in chord progressions or when he would to try to ask Ivan for tips for scaling the bars of the jungle gym in the enrichment area because Till was one of the last kids to not do so.

This time, a tiny ember bursts out of the fire and brushes past Till’s hand. Till hisses, legs immediately dropping to the side. He clutches the top of his hand with the other hand, then looks at Ivan and scowls. Ivan, who already has his own palm stretched out, quickly raises it in surrender instead. As always, he dislikes seeing Till in pain, especially when it is not his own measured hands delivering only a fraction of force.

“There’s no need for you to waste your time on such a thing,” Ivan says. His fingers flex against the air. When his hands don’t know what to do with themselves, they end up resorting to copying the movements of Till’s hands, pressing the holes in the recorder. Of course, no sound Ivan could produce could ever compare, so silence is the only answer. “Besides, we can’t have Anakt Garden’s residential musical genius risk the well-being of his hands, can we? Especially after this little accident. Your title as all-time winner of the annual singing contest might be up for grabs.”

“Like that could ever happen,” Till says, even though Ivan can see his eyebrows scrunch for a second. It amazes Ivan how Till can effortlessly claim his place while simultaneously hunching over it as he thinks it can be taken away anytime. Ivan likes him this way, selfish and desperate. A bead of sweat drips down Till's forehead. The desire to lick it up arises, the world’s tiniest fire. Ivan snuffs it out with expertise. “Why won't you do it? Are you scared that your signature fire show might lose its shine?”

It is years of reflexes that enable Ivan to catch Till’s fist before it comes down on his arm. He only allows the hit to land on days when he misses the harshness of the touch. Although none of his limbs bear the imprints of knuckles these days. Ever since Ivan started growing taller and wider than Till, he has tried to find newer ways to provoke Till. Physical altercations are no longer good because they are no longer an equal exchange.

Still, Ivan likes to go beyond the inch he is given sometimes, so he covers the breadth of Til’s fist with his own fingers. He prods around, making sure to press firm enough for the gesture to at least be half-annoying, trying to pinpoint where the ember had touched skin. When he catches Till wince, he keeps his thumb placed over the area. These hands, Ivan wants to say, are for playing guitars and recorders and pianos and drawing the whorls of flowers and the shapes of the trees that no one remembers. There may be no such thing as a useful talent, but the one you have gets pretty close, right?

Well, that is what Ivan thinks, at least. It is hard to say. He looks over at Till’s shoulder at the red flowers growing through the grass in the distance. He wonders how the segyein describe these moments in their observation charts or what their files on the traits of pet humans say in general. Ivan, who holds onto a talent that no longer serves him—beyond making Till lean past his shoulder to peer at the dwindling flames—as if it were a birth certificate, the only evidence linking him to this past. Till, who entwines the petals of the cameras or tunes his guitar, unreservedly making art of the very objects or concepts the segyein use to control them. Behind them, still under the tree, Mizi and Sua, having long forgotten the world around them. Sua, who can add and subtract large numbers in her head, being good at keeping track of how little time they have left. Mizi, who whispers and shrieks when telling stories about the ghostly fish that are at the bottom of the river, waiting for an unsuspecting human to dip their foot inside. The same Mizi’s smile only wavers for a second when she sees another empty chair in their classroom, turning up to its normal brightness later, unaware of the real horrors permeating this place.

In the end, all their talents will only get them so far. But at least traces of Till’s scribbles on the white walls will remain even after all the small pile of wood has turned to ashes.

“Maybe I'll consider it,” Ivan says, letting Till’s hand slip out of his, as his own once did from Till’s. He chooses the segue he knows will make Till run in the other direction once again. “I’ll think about it if you touch lips with me once. Do it twice, and I'll teach you right away.”

“Huh? You’re on that again?” Till says, pushing at Ivan's arm. He huffs, but his body remains turned toward him. Curious. Even his collar is still green. “Fine. Don’t teach me. You’ll be around showing off like this anyway, so I can just stop by anytime I feel like it.”

Ivan doesn’t tell him about how swiftly a fire can be put out. Instead, he shakes his head. He thinks of the last negotiation he had even attempted before he had been cuffed and chained. Give me one slice, and I’ll think about it. Give me two slices, and I’ll leave right away.

In truth, a single slice of bread should have been sufficient to make one consider so-called freedom. Perhaps Ivan had been stupid to wait so long to answer. In a different life, would he be sitting by this fire again, but it would be with people who would never question his motivations for starting one? Perhaps Anakt Garden would not exist beyond the posters stuck on light poles and the sponsorship videos they showed on the communal screens.

But what would such a life even have given him beyond a longer expiration date? Once, in their first couple of years of knowing each other, while lying on the grass in the afternoon light, Ivan had asked Till: What do you think freedom is like? Till had stared up at the yellowing sky and responded so promptly it was as if he had been born with the answer on the tip of his tongue. Being able to go anywhere at all, he had said. Much later, on a night forever stained in red, looking at Till’s silhouette disappear in the direction of the garden that they had just turned their backs on, Ivan had thought: Where else was there even to go? Of course, he had followed Till back.

On average, a meteor shower could have approximately 1000 meteors falling by the hour. If Ivan had had the chance to wish on every one of them, he would have only asked for 1000 more of the same minuscule opportunities. 1000 more tussles on the green hills. 1000 more stolen pencils. 1000 more crumpled pages picked out of bins in the classrooms. 1000 more attempts at picking sandwiches off of Till’s meal trays. After all, Ivan had wagered bread for much bigger gains. Sure, freedom had sounded promising. It sounds promising even today. But getting to see the red flush spread across Till’s cheeks as he tried to get back what was rightfully his? The gap between the two choices had been far too wide.

“Stupid,” Till says now, and Ivan thinks one of those 1000 stars must have listened to him. He feels a tickling along his scalp, where fingers are gently combing through hair parted to the side. When Ivan keeps staring, Till lifts his holds one out to show that it's dusted with a hint of grey. “You have ash in your hair.”

Ivan’s heart kicks up inside his ribs, suddenly violently alive. Body tensing, all his physiological responses resemble those of a boy encountering a creature four times his size. But all Ivan has to encounter in this instance is the touch of another boy’s hand. Such an unequal reaction to the action being performed, and yet his survival instincts are all out of order anyway. As he has learned to do in the moments of danger, he can only keep sitting still.

You’re a bit scrawny now, the man at the fire had said, but if you bulk, you could be handy. Ivan has since gotten broader, but the segyein have no use for his muscles beyond enhancing them in skintight clothing. Still, he gets to push Till to the floor during flexibility exercises. Such is the way with most things: In the slums, he had to be on the lookout for the slightest ripple in shadows. Now he finds Till’s disheveled hair in the first ten seconds of entering any room. And with his body long accustomed to running on a few hours of deep sleep, he can press his ear against the wall of his room and listen to Till sing into the night. Ivan finds this to be its own kind of survival.

Till’s fingers flick the last of the ash off his hair and then disappear as if they were never there. Just so he doesn’t have to be without the feeling for much longer, Ivan leans his body against Till’s side until Till begins shoving back. The fire travels through the last bits of the remaining sticks, but Ivan’s skin is already burning from where it is pressing against Till. What a useless talent, Ivan marvels. It is both a blessing and a curse.

Eventually, they find an equilibrium. The negotiations conclude, and the shoving comes to a stop.

Despite everything, Till moves closer. The fire fizzles out.