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Chapter Text

The curtain is slick beneath my fingertips, cold in its sterility. A divider between rows and rows of the sick and injured. A privacy curtain meant to conceal the pained groans of those who wouldn't see tomorrow. Because if you can't see it, then maybe it was never real at all. Maybe you can convince yourself that it never happened.

If I don't go in, then maybe he never -

"Go on, hun, he won't bite." An orderly croons, closing the neighboring curtain behind her, bucket of soiled rags pressed against her hip.

I sigh, dropping my grip on the plastic, willing myself to turn away from the small sliver of light spilling inside, "How is he?"

She smiles gently, the corners of her eyes crinkling, "Better than yesterday."

I look away, trying to hold my tongue. It was a dance we've done every day for 2 weeks now and the answer was the same every time. She'd never given me more than a half hearted apology and a shrug. I keep hoping that today will be the last time I have to see her. But then today becomes yesterday and the day before that and the day before.

I've grown rather tired of the performance.

"Did you get the soap I asked for?" I ask, probably a little too harshly judging by the twitch at the corner of her lip.

She turns and marches the other direction, tossing her reply over her shoulder as she goes, "It's in the cabinet, hun."

I can't help but curl my lip at her retreating form, disdain thick in my throat. I try to clear it out with a sharp breath, steadying my nerves once more before ducking through the small part in the curtain.

"Good morning, Ivan."

I glance over his resting form, eyes closed, chest rising and falling evenly, exactly as I left him the day before.

It was a sight I rarely ever saw when we were children. Only when he'd overworked himself in training. He'd doze off while watching whatever nonsense I'd been scribbling in my notebook. And I'd pretend not to notice because I knew it was the only way he'd rest, otherwise. Or maybe I just like the way he looked so peaceful. How the tension between his brows would disappear and he'd look like himself again.

"Or well, I guess it would be afternoon to you, huh?" I offer a strained laugh, turning back to the cabinet to grab the soap and run some water.

The first time I was able to visit, he barely looked like himself. Half of his face was caked with dried blood no one had bothered to clean. His hair was knotted together with it, it was everywhere. It had taken me hours just to get him looking close to himself again. And the orderly had nagged me for getting his pillow wet when I'd tried to clean his hair.

"You always did have the most insane schedule," I muse, settling down in the seat next to him, "I guess you're catching up on sleep now, though."

I reach out, brushing his hair away from his forehead. It was stiff and sticky to the touch, oily.

He'd hate it.

The anger in my gut raised it's head again while I wrung the water from the rag I'd prepared. I've been asking the orderly to wash his hair for days now. If she wouldn't let me do it, then the least she could do was take care of it herself. I'll bring shampoo with me next time, consequences be damned.

"The food here is strange, Ivan." I babble, absentmindedly as I take the rag to his forehead, wiping gently at the skin that seemed to be regaining it's flush day by day. Looking closer, he really does seem to look better today than yesterday. Like he really is just taking a nap in the grass. Like he'll wake up at any moment and say something to rile me up again.

"I don't know if I like it or not. Sometimes it's sharp and I don't understand why." The rag comes away with that reddish brown tint again and I sigh, dipping it back into the water to repeat the process. No matter how many times I do this, it never comes back clean. I can't put him back together the way he would. I can't bring him back. All I can do is pretend I'm making a difference. Pretend just a little bit longer that everything is okay. Pretend that I don't claw his icy fingers from my throat every night.

"I kinda want the sharp stuff again though? It made me hot. Do you know what I'm talking about? Like it makes you sweaty." I gently turn his face to the side, fingertips on his cheekbone while I prod behind his ear to find the source of the stain. I wipe gently with the rag, careful not to bend or press too hard. I clean until the spot comes back clear, wiping to the bend of his neck just to be sure.

If he ever wakes up, I don't want him to have to see what I saw. I want him to know that he was cared for. That he doesn't have to do it all alone. But at the same time, I don't know if I'd be able to do the same if I knew he'd remember any of this. If he knew I'd been here every day, that I'd combed his hair and cleaned the crust from his eyes.

I don't know why I do it. I just know that I have to.

"Oh! Ivan, they gave me some paint yesterday. There are so many colors!" I continue with the aimless chatter, enthusiasm growing quiet towards the end as I tilt his head back into a more comfortable position. My fingertips brush against both of his cheekbones, innocently exploring the flesh I had bruised so many times. I swallow the lump in my throat as I stare at his stillness, blinking back the heat in my eyes. I let my thumb wander up past his chin, brushing against the corner of his mouth, tracing the curve of his bottom lip.

"I wish you'd wake up. I miss you," I whisper, tearing myself away from him to grab a new rag and busy my hands with something less terrifying.

His hand is heavy in mine as I work the rag carefully around the fingernails. By now, they look nearly clean, but blood is stubborn in its reminders. It stuck to the hard to reach places, staining the white a dingy brown no matter how much I wiped.

I hum the tune to an old song that's been stuck in my head for days, a lullaby I think, but I cant remember where I learned it. Its like him. He's just always been there. I can't remember what life was like before him. I don't want there to be an after. In this entire camp full of people, the only person I want to speak to can't respond. The one I see in the corners of the room when I can't breathe. The one I dream about-

My family.

That's the word they use for it.

Something you can't live without. Something more than friends. Sometimes it hurts, but it makes you feel whole. Like you'd do anything to hold onto this person, to keep them safe.

Because sometimes they matter more than yourself.

Is that how he felt about me?

Is that why he did it?

I squint at his fingernails, trying to figure out how to get at the last bit tucked underneath. Carefully, I slide my own fingernail beneath his, scraping free the last flakes of red I'd been trying to get rid of for weeks. They must have finally grown enough for me to reach it. Maybe I'll bring some of my paint and cover up the dingy brown.

Would that make him feel better?

Would he hate me for touching him like this?

For seeing him so vulnerable?

It was something he tried to hide behind charismatic grins and teasing. Giving just enough to make himself look human like the rest of us.

But he was always pretending.

He was desperate to make himself something that he wasn't. You could see it in the fake smiles he'd come back with, bruises dark on his cheeks from his grueling training. He'd display them proudly, showing how he'd learned to mimic something else. How he'd learned to pretend even better than before.

Did he ever really feel happy?

I think so.

I think he felt happy when we'd sit under that tree together and draw. When things were finally quiet and no one was looking at him. He'd stop smiling and the look in his eyes would go from determination to something more akin to curiosity. He'd touch my hand and I would mess something up. I'd nag at him but he'd just stare at me with that same expression. Like he was just trying to understand.

I think Ivan spent his entire life trying to learn how to be human. So much so that he never really had time to figure it out.

But I'd let him poke and prod because he never held any malice in his eyes. He never intended to hurt me. Who was I to deny the first amount of contact i'd experienced that didn't hurt? I'd grumble occasionally to keep up appearances but really I was just embarrassed. Embarrassed of how my heart ached for more of that closeness when he was gone. That he could step over all of my boundaries and I'd ask him to stay. Embarrassed that my notebook was full of drawings of him.

Finishing my cleaning, I slip my fingers between his, feeling his warmth seep into my palm. Proof that he's alive. That his heart still beats. Careful to avoid the thick bandages I know lie beneath the sheets, I lean forward. I know he'd hate it. He'd never let me do this if he were awake. I wouldn't even try. But I can't help the desperation at the bottom of my stomach, begging me for even more proof. Something to confirm that he'll be okay. That he'll wake up and everything will be fine.

I press my ear against the sheets just above his chest, searching for the quiet thump of his heartbeat. Its faster than usual, tapping a rhythm against the inside of his ribcage. I drink it in, letting myself relax, holding onto his hand and listening to the lullaby of his heart.

Tears bite at my lashes once again and I sniffle with the effort of holding them back. "Everything is worse without you, Ivan." I choke out, "You have to wake up."

"Please."

"There are so many things I never got to say to you."

His breath whistles in the stale air of the room, heart continuing to beat it's level tune, and his eyes stay shut.

Pleading isn't going to bring him back. I've tried plenty of that. But I can't get past the feeling that I just haven't said the right thing yet. That I can say the magic words, apologize for just the right thing, and he'll open his eyes. I can't help but feel like I'm being punished for something I didn't even know I was doing wrong.

"This is my fault." I whisper, letting the sharp syllables die in the scent of antibacterial soap.

But I'll never be able to clean this off.

The feeling of his blood on my hands. The way I'd slipped in it. The way it dried on my clothes, crackling into pieces too small to go back together. The way I'd destroyed so much, inconsolable in my rage. How I'd been forced to shower under supervision, sprayed until the water ran clear and they said I could go. How Mizi watched the whole thing. How I'd hurled sopping wet strips of fabric at her, shivering, half naked in the water. How I'd screamed at all of them.

And how his hands always seemed to wrench my cries quiet.

"Till? Are you in here?" Mizi's voice filters through the curtain before she does and I lift my head quickly, sitting upright but keeping my grip on his hand. I meet her eyes briefly before directing them elsewhere, willing her to just leave me be.

"I'm just visiting, it's fine." I mumble, already feeling the lecture before she's even opened her mouth.

As expected, her lips twist in displeasure and she sighs "Till, we've talked about this, you have-"

"I know, Mizi," I cut her off, tone sharp, "I told you it's fine. I mean, who's going to take care of him if I don't? When's the last time you came to visit on your own?"

She hesitates, clenching her jaw and crossing her arms.

"Just over 2 weeks and you've already given up on him." I barrel on, "Can't say I'm surprised."

With a huff, she stalks closer, a hard look in her eyes as she glances over my hand interlocked with his. She clicks her tongue and turns back to me, "Till, stop acting like a child. Get up, we're going to see the doctor." Her voice is cold, commandeering the power she knows she holds over me, "You think you're doing a good job of hiding it, but you're not. It's selfish."

I grit my teeth, clenching onto ivan's hand tighter than i'd intended to. The familiar anger in my gut gave way to biting guilt as she kept going. She could make them refuse to let me see him if she wanted to. And I've begun to doubt that she wouldn't. It was a power dynamic that I'd never felt when we were children, but one that she seemed to take pride in now. And she knew exactly which pieces to play to keep me playing her game.

When had she stopped being the girl I admired not so long ago?

Had I ever really known her at all?

Or had I made it all up, struggling to piece together the feelings in my chest?

Is family supposed to cause one another pain?

His fingertips creep up my windpipe as I let his hand slip from mine, wordlessly standing and staring down at how it barely crinkled the stark white sheets.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Till. Do you think he'd want this? I'm just worried about you. Don't be mad at me." She babbles endless empty excuses as I set my jaw and practically stomp out of the room, going down the hall to the place I no longer need directions for, preparing for him to apply bandages I'd just scratch loose by tomorrow.

But maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe he won't stare from the corner of the room. Maybe he'll wake up. Maybe he'll talk to me. Maybe we can all stop pretending.

Or maybe tomorrow, our pretending can be real.

Chapter Text

"Stop crying, Till."

I wrench my arm out of Mizi's grasp, reaching for the crumpled body at my feet.

"Stop it! You're fine!"

The water is everywhere, the blood is everywhere. Someone is screaming.

"Hold him. His arm! Get his arm!"

I suffocate under the weight of their hands, lashing out in any way I can.

"Till, pull it together."

They're still touching me. Always touching me. Maybe it's my mind. Maybe it's the water. Their fingers are cold.

"Can you even hear me right now?"

His breath on my ear, her hand on my knee, the buzz of the lights, the slurred muttering from my own lips.

"Till, you have to wash up."

Water pressure.

"Here, I'll help you."

Concrete.

"Till, stop making this so difficult!"

"This is only going to take longer if you keep trying to bite me."

"He's out of his mind. He doesn't understand."

"I could stand here all night."

I shiver violently, knees pressed tight to my chest, the cement biting into flesh laid bare. A discolored patch on my thigh where water had been aimed for far too long. My voice, raw and scratchy from unheard pleas. Cowering in the corner like an animal.

Always an animal - a pet.

Something to control.

"Want me to keep going?"

I bolt upright with a gasp, heart racing and fingers slick with red. My new room comes into focus around me as I catch my breath, shaking my head and closing my eyes against the memories of that night.

I touch the side of my neck, tracing where the raised edge of my tag is supposed to be. The skin stings and it sticks out more than before, the awkward angle sharp to the touch. My heart sinks at the thought of the lecture Mizi is going to give me over this.

Maybe if I can avoid her long enough, she'll never have to know.

It takes me nearly 10 minutes to get all the blood off of my hands and equally as long to try and fix my bandages and the sweater I was given to cover up the marks. I should stay inside if I really want to avoid her, I know she'll find me if I visit him. But the thought of him lying in that sterile room for hours on his own makes my stomach twist.

What has he been feeling this entire time? Is he remembering what it was like to grow up in that lavish house of his - so many empty rooms that he could never explore them all on his own? Or was he trapped in his body like the solitary confinement of the quarters I'd been given as a pet of Urak's?

They say talking to him can help. Help him escape wherever he's stuck right now. Help him remember there's people waiting for him. Help him see that he has a choice and he's not alone.

I can't abandon him just because I'm avoiding Mizi.

I'd never forgive myself.

***

The orderly slips into another room just as I open the door and I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe today I can have a more pleasant conversation with him. I'm always having to reel my temper in from our interactions and sometimes I'm afraid he can pick up on that. Maybe he's getting tired of the mundane things I've been babbling about, though. Maybe I should talk about something different.

I wish he could just tell me.

I grab the little bottle of paint out of my pocket, sliding his curtain open as I check the color again. It was similar to the kind I'd used back home. It was given to me with a whole slew of other supplies one of the rebellion members had stumbled upon. I don't remember if he gave me his name, but he was incredibly kind when he dropped everything off.

I wonder if Mizi had asked him to do that or if he'd taken the liberty himself. But why would he do that if we'd barely ever met? Does he want something in return?

The rules here are so different, I don't know how to make sense of them. Over two weeks in and I feel I'm even more confused than when I started.

I glance up at Ivan, stepping into the room and hesitating as my eyes lock onto his. He blinks, black and red staring back at me from his wide eyes. Every muscle in my body locks up as I try to process, the privacy curtain crinkling loudly in my fist. I can barely catch my breath as I scan the room, the blanket strewn over his shoulders, the book abandoned on his lap.

Is this real?

The doctor. I should get the doctor, right? He should check to make sure everything is okay. Or the orderly? Would she know what to do? What if he's hurt himself. I can't see any blood, but what if it's inside? Is he supposed to be sitting up like this? Can I see him? Do I need to leave? Does he want me here? Does he know who I am? What if he doesn't remember who I am? What am I supposed to do, then? How am-

"Please don't leave. I'll go back to sleep, like before." He asks, an unfamiliar edge to his voice, rattling through the deep, silky finish he's always had. The blood stains I could never reach.

I swallow thickly, his words settling uncomfortably at the pit of my stomach as I force my fingers to let go of the curtain and my lungs to reclaim their oxygen. I stare at him, still not sure I believe it, taking another unsteady step towards the foot of his bed. My throat is tight with the weight of a lifetime, everything I've ever said to him, everything I never had the courage to admit.

And I can't force a single syllable through my lips. Just loud, painfully short breaths as my eyes start to burn once again.

I stumble closer to his bedside, bottle of paint forgotten somewhere between the curtain and the sheets at the foot of his bed. His eyes never leave mine. In my haste, my foot catches the leg of the visitor's chair I'd sat in so many times, knees slamming into the ground. My hand flies out instinctively, grabbing onto the edge of his bed to keep from knocking my head. Everything was exactly as I'd left it the day before, but somehow it all looked different when his eyes were open.

I breathe for a second, trying to free myself from whatever had sent me sprawling when I feel warmth spread over my fingertips. My breath stutters to a halt once again as I look up at him, the smallest bit of concern etched in the crease of his brow. His fingers, soft from disuse, the ones I'd spent hours scrubbing individually clean, brush over my knuckles.

Delicate.

A question.

Alive.

I find my footing, knees aching, his fingertips sliding away as quickly as they had come.

"I'm sorry. I can-" his voice fades off as I rest my hip on the edge of his bed, closer than I'd dared in a long while.

His eyes flick between my own, searching. His familiar curiosity burns through my chest, and I can breathe again.

It makes me stupid.

I lean closer, knowing he'll stop me. Begging him to stop me. Because I don't know how to come back from this. I don't know how to explain it away. But I know I need it. My body is sore with the weeks of effort, waiting for this moment. Holding out for this action. With the promise of relief on the other side.

Reassurance.

Peace.

My forehead makes contact first, pressed up gently against the blanket at the crook of his neck. I wrap my arm around him, resting my hand at the base of his shoulder blade while the other hangs loosely against his waist, too afraid to touch the giant bandages peeking through.

It's barely a moment before the dam in my throat finally breaks, the most pathetic whine slipping out before the rush of tears, wicked dry by the crude blanket. I keep my chest pulled away from his, leaving room for him to breathe, trying my hardest not to hurt him.

My ribs ache, each moment with my skin against his like food after weeks of starvation. It hurts, sobs ripping through me with a desperation that I'm not sure I've ever felt. The sound his body made, striking the cold, wet floor. The way his fingers seemed almost blue during that first visit. All of it, crowds at the forefront of my mind, standing in contrast to the wide-eyed life I'd seen just a moment ago.

Almost the same expression as when we were children. The same wonder. The gaze I was too afraid to return. But the one I craved more than anything. The one that seemed to dissolve my skin, seeing through the flesh and bone and finding something worthwhile.

I'm not sure I would've made it as far as I have without him.

He gave me something to look forward to, interaction that wasn't painful, where there were no rules or consequences.

Just us.

"Till ..." He breathes out quietly, hand hovering somewhere near the middle of my back.

It sends a jolt of anger through me, mixing with the desperation to make something ugly and fearful. My name in such a tone promising a lecture, promising more manipulative deals and pathetic apologies. It sounds like her, like Mizi. Like she's telling me to let go, to pull it together, to stop crying.

"Don't tell me what to do!" I practically scream, curling my face further into his neck and pulling my hand away from his injuries.

Its pathetic and tinny, the plea of a snot-nosed kid who can't keep himself under control. But I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to be better. There aren't any aliens here. I'm not a pet anymore. There's no reason to fight. But my skin still crawls with the same anxiety. I still can't sleep at night, waiting to hear Urak's footsteps outside my door.

I may not be a pet anymore, but I'll always be an animal.

His breath hitches quietly, jaw clicking shut above my head with the suddenness of my outburst. The first words I'd spoken to him since he woke up and they were shouted demands. Its almost ironic.

The fire in my veins is gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the thought of giant doe eyes and the icy grip of guilt. I pull back from him, trying to support more of my weight while still maintaining the contact with the skin of his neck.

"Am I hurting you?" I mumble, the words a complete turn from the shouting just a moment ago.

Its quiet and unsure, knowing that his answer holds all the power over me. Knowing that he holds power over me, and somehow feeling comforted by the fact.

His chest rises and falls slowly, "No ..." He murmurs, the confusion clear in his tone.

I hum, warmth blooming in my stomach as I press the bridge of my nose into the side of his neck, rubbing down the side of my face until my eyelid pulls with the friction. It was something I didn't even realize I was doing half the time. Something would strike a chord so deep within me, something so precious, I'd feel the most painful hunger to have it closer. To make it a part of me. To give it a part of myself so it could live forever. It's been so long since I've felt it last.

I huff out a breath of relief as his fingertips graze the nape of my neck, "Till ..." The tone impossible to place.

The touch is gone as soon as I could perceive it, his hand dropping back to its place on the mattress. Dread filters through my nerves as I let my breathing even out against his skin and I wish he would touch me. Push me off of him, slap me, hug me back. I wish he would do anything besides sit there with his hands at his sides. As if afraid to do anything more.

As if I'm so fragile, he thinks I'll break.

Or maybe he can already see the cracks. Maybe he really does hate what I've become.

It makes me nauseous, fingers twitching up to the bandages at my neck to scratch the sensation away. He was willing to break me before, why the silent treatment, now? Does he regret it? Saving my life?

I swallow thickly, leaning away from him and curling up in the visitor chair, knees pressed to my chest. I suppress the urge to cry, now for an entirely new reason than before. It's everything I've wanted for weeks, but without the fantasy. Without the illusion that everything can go back to normal and be okay.

But it's real.

"Till. You're .... It may not be-" I cut him off before he can finish something I know I won't be able to hear.

"Don't say it." I whisper, avoiding his eyes, "Please, can I just-"

"You fell." He butts in plainly.

I look up, slightly confused, locking eyes with him again. It's that same stupid expression he'd always wear when he was pointing out the obvious. When I could never tell if he was being intentionally dense or if he really thought he was helping.

'You messed that line up.'

'You broke your pencil.'

'You have a bruise.'

He blinks owlishly, tooth poking out of his upper lip ever so slightly and the jittery warmth floods back into my limbs.

I snort, "Yeah, so what?" Cheeks growing hot, "You surprised me, asshole."

The oily heat of embarrassment curls in my stomach as my head finally catches up to everything I'd done. All the things I'd said when I thought he was asleep.

His perpetually surprised expression turns coy with a slight curve of his lips and a crinkle near his eyes.

"Shut up!" I cry, burying my burning cheeks in the sleeves of my jacket, knowing it's doing nothing compared to what he must already know.

It can't possibly get much worse than this. I can only imagine the teasing he'll start up with once he feels better. I've given him nearly a lifetime of kindling. But at the same time, the embarrassment feels empty, only scratching the surface of the ocean of history between us.

I think he could make fun of me for the rest of my life.

Part of me is glad he knows I'm the one who cared for him.

Part of me wishes I could pour my insides out for him to sort through and piece back together, just so he could learn the things I'll never be able to put into words.

So he could see how many times his name shows up in my story.

So I don't mess it up again with my stupid mouth and my ridiculous insecurities.

I want to close the distance between us once and for all.

"I'm sorry, Till."

I barely catch his voice, softer than I think I've ever heard. An apology more sincere than I thought he was capable. It makes me lose my breath and I fight the urge to look at him, curling my fingers into my sleeves to keep them firmly over my eyes.

He didn't want me to look at him. He said it knowing I couldn't see and hoping I couldn't hear. It was for himself, not for me. There was no reason to apologize to me, he'd done nothing wrong. But guilt is a hard thing to shake.

So I keep up the illusion for him and hope that maybe the words bring him a little bit of solace. Hope that maybe one day neither of us will have to feel sorry anymore.

"Ivan-" the words slip out before I can stop them, before I can even take my hands away from my eyes, "I think I ... When you were shot, I wanted-" my voice cracks and I hesitate.

Just long enough for Mizi's voice to tear through the silence, as unwelcome as a gunshot in the rain, "There you are, Till! I've been looking for you everywhere."

My body stiffens, shoulders locking into place at her presence as my hands finally drop to my lap, glancing up at her from beneath my lashes. Her eyes are sharp, roaming over every inch of my skin. I feel exposed under her gaze, and I draw my knees tighter to my chest.

Now that I have her attention, I want nothing more than to escape it.

She directs a small smile and a wave to Ivan, "I'm glad you're awake. Between the two of us, you've had a lot of excitement today, huh?" She laughs, "Let me take Till off your hands here so you can get some rest."

Ivan's voice turns to a murmur as he responds, fading to background noise as rage builds in the deepest part of my gut. It's all I can do to stop from shaking with it.

But the blue pallor of his skin those first few days echoes in my mind, keeping my mouth clamped shut. He's just woken up, the last thing I want to do is cause him any more pain. And shouting at his best friend in front of him was definitely not the most calming thing to witness. I can't be responsible for hurting him again. I will my legs to work through the anger, carrying myself out of his room as quick as possible.

I don't look back.

I can't.

Almost as soon as Mizi slides his privacy curtain closed, her slender fingers close around my wrist. It's confinement: cold and absolute, bones of her knuckles digging into mine. Control. I yank backwards, wheeling around and clutching my hand to my chest as if I'd been burned.

"You fucking knew?" I spit, barely able to hide the betrayal festering in my teeth, "You knew he was awake. You had an entire conversation with him. And not once, did you think that maybe I'd like to know."

Its a useless conversation, far too loud and aggressive to be anything more.

Childish in the way my voice strains against my throat to keep a flat tone even though I feel my volume rising with each breath.

She breathes out an exasperated laugh, rolling her eyes, "Till, I was going to tell you, calm down-"

"Stop lying to me!"

The infirmary is silent, my shrieking echoing off of plastic dividers, thundering through the corridors until I'm sure every patient can hear us.

Mizi hums, straightening her posture ever so slightly, closing off in that way that's become familiar, when she's not getting what she wants. "Till, you're being irrational, this is ridiculous."

I scoff, "Oh, 'irrational' now, is it? What happened to 'unstable'? Or 'out of his mind'? Don't hold back, Mizi, say what you want to say."

She curls her lip, shaking her head, "Maybe it's all of them, Till. You're certainly acting it right now."

"No wonder Sua fucking killed herself." It's deafening in the quiet of the room and Mizi looks pale.

Guilt gnaws at my stomach, mixing with the boiling rage until I can't tell the difference anymore. Until my mouth works faster than my brain, spewing the hurt I'd never want to share. Until I'm the seething monster she wants me to be.

She turns to me slightly with widened eyes, "What did you say?"

A whispered threat.

A choice.

The freedom I've been fighting for and yet I can only see one option.

"It's the only way she could get away from you. You can't leave anything alone. You're the reason she did it. You killed her. You b-"

She's on me before I can even finish, knuckles bared and digging into my cheekbone with enough force to send me reeling. I crash into the shelf behind me, supplies skittering across the floor as I try to find purchase with my hands. Mizi follows right behind, grabbing my shirt in one hand, knees planted on either side of my chest.

She strikes over and over again and I feel my lip split with the force of it, warm blood spilling into my mouth with the sharp taste of iron. I try to protect my head clumsily, elbows coming up over my ears.

It's nearly euphoric, seeing her break, watching her give in to the animal she hides under the placating smiles and carefully manicured sentences. The animal I never knew existed. The one she became the perfect pet to hide. I can't help but wonder which one is real. Were all the awkward conversations just manipulation? Acting like prey so she didn't have to put forth the effort to scavenge herself? Or was she lying to herself as well? Pretending to be the fawn the vultures feast on, lips spitting copper, carnage stuck between her teeth.

I try to buck her off, halfheartedly, dizzy from the rainfall of her fists. She barely budges, eyes empty and lip set in a wicked snarl. Tears linger at the edge of her lashes, but they don't fall.

She won't let them.

She's still holding back.

It only makes the writhing anger coil tighter.

Her weight is torn from me all at once as the orderly shoves her away, keeping an unforgiving grip on her wrist, "Not in here!"

Her gaze is sharp and disapproving, but that's nothing new. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, the warm copper already thick against my upper lip.

"What were you thinking?" The orderly lectures as she shoves Mizi towards the door, yellow eyes never leaving mine until they're forced out of range, "You should know better. Get out of here. You can finish this later."

I catch my breath, stumbling to my feet as the world blurs with the echoes of harsh impact. Skin already tightening over bruises yet to surface.

I don't regret it.

Family isn't supposed to hide things that important from one another. Family isn't supposed to lie or manipulate like she does. Family shouldn't feel like willingly accepting handcuffs and a collar.

Or maybe it is.

Maybe it is and I'm just too slow to get it.

Maybe it is and he's just strange.

The orderly frowns at me, suddenly looking much older than she ever has. "You have to stop this, hun."

It makes me pause, mid-huff, eyes ready to roll at the angry quip she always has prepared. But this is different. She sounds almost sad, experience scraping at the vocal chords, telling of stories never get to hear, of an entire life lived that I'd never know.

"You have to stop fighting." She continues, each word like ice down my spine, "I saw how you took care of him.

He's awake now.

You have people who care about you, hun, who worry.

You have to stop."

I swallow thickly, the pain in my face becoming a pinprick compared to the vice in my chest. Its strong, crushing the monster she had built with just a few short phrases, sharpening the edges of reality and making my breath feel heavy in my lungs.

Present.

Like this is real.

Like he is real.

Like I have to take responsibility.

Like I need to keep him safe.

I hang my head, avoiding the kindness in her gaze as she sighs and points down the hall, "Doctor is back there. You know the room."

It was supposed to be different here, safe. Once he opened his eyes, I was supposed to be able to relax. Once he recovers, maybe Mizi will calm down. Once she does, maybe I will feel a little better.

Contentedness always pushed behind the next thing. Striving for something that's always just out of reach.

But I think I've gotten close once or twice.

The smell of his skin, sweat and cheap hospital soap, pressed against my face like the flowers I used to love. The hum of his voice, sliding over vocal chords, familiar in its depth. The curiosity in his eyes, the mischief in his smile.

The way my chest seemed to stir with something so different when I'm with him, something light and electric. Nothing like the rage that chewed away at my intestines during the strained silences with Mizi.

Somehow, even the word, 'family,' seems wholly inefficient to describe it.

Chapter Text

The pieces feel strange in my hand, thin and fragile. Just straight lines of metal, barely resembling the letters they'd made up before.

The doctor had given me the pieces that I hadn't destroyed. The ones that weren't so badly mangled that I'd nearly cut myself trying to take my sweater off. The ones he'd spent nearly half an hour cutting out of my skin.

My neck feels almost cold without them, the title that I’ve been forced to carry. The brand. Even the bandages can't seem to keep me warm.

He says the scratches will most likely scar. An ugly mess of desperation marring my flesh. Replacing one brand for another. Both of them speaking of weakness, but only one that can never be removed.

The pieces are so small, rattling around in my palm, no bigger than the lead of a pencil. Inconsequential, yet encompassing all I am. Or was.

Till

It was a leash, something to keep me in line, reminding me that even my own name didn't truly belong to me.

And now it's gone.

It's an odd discomfort to miss the familiarity of the chains you've worn for a lifetime. To crave the feeling of the raised lines under my fingertips. To fear the fact that I'll never see it again.

I remember getting the tag. The way I'd fought, screaming at them to let go. The way they'd tied me down like an animal, practically sitting on me to keep me still. The way Urak had chosen the most conspicuous place for the tag, knowing I'd hate him even more for it.

Sua and Mizi had gotten theirs done together. Or maybe had just been nearby. Everything they did was together. Never very far from one another.

I wonder if it was comforting. To have someone there to witness their pain. Did it give them strength? Or did it make things worse? Knowing that at the end of the day, we are all property, and the freedoms they were given were just a privilege. Knowing that it could all be taken away as quickly as it came.

Is that why they cling to one another so tightly? Wanting to make the most of the time they had before it inevitably ended?

I don't think I'd have wanted him there for my tagging. I don't think I'd have been able to handle the look in his eyes. The silent begging to stop fighting. To stop making things worse. The way he'd never look away, finding some sense of duty in watching until the end.

I wonder if he felt the same?

Did he want me there when his was done?

Did his guardian hold his hand and tell him he'd done a good job?

Did it hurt?

I put the little pieces on the desk in my room, unable to toss them in the garbage. Somehow it felt like I'd be throwing away a part of myself. One i'd loathed for years, but didn't know how to live without.

It seems so silly now, looking at the little pile on the old wood.

Meaningless.

Is that all it was?

Everything we'd been through. The years of memories I'd built with all of them. Just fodder for our development, we were always meant to die on that stage.

I can't believe it was all for nothing, though.

Not when my chest aches with the realness of it all. Not when I miss the simulated grass between my fingers and the soft breath from a head resting on my shoulder. Not when every part of me is rooted in everything that came before. When I carry every stolen moment in the back of the classroom, every broken pencil and every lonely birthday.

I'd be nothing without all of it.

Every second, inconsequential in the grand scheme, but everything to me.

Even if it was all meaningless, maybe I can create my own meaning from the pieces left behind. Though the metal pieces may not spell my name anymore, maybe they could spell something new.

*****

"You have to move to balance, you can't just sit in one place!" Isaac lectures, barely holding back the laughter bubbling in the back of his throat.

Dewey, who I'd just met, wasn't as gracious, doubled over in wheezing breaths as he wipes tears from his cheeks.

I grumble, rubbing my leg where I'd fallen, the bike crashing into my shin, metal on bone, an impact sure to leave a nasty bruise.

"I told you to teach me something useful, not try to kill me!" I shout, climbing to my feet and hoisting the two-wheeled metal contraption up with me.

Isaac smiles, grabbing onto a handlebar and shaking his head, "You'll get it eventually."

"Yeah! Once he stops flapping his knees around like some kind of deformed duck!" Dewey calls from a few feet away, practically rolling on the ground at the hilarity of his own joke.

He reminds me of Ivan a bit.

Both of them do, in the most peculiar ways.

Isaac breathes a laugh, turning back to me with a smile that crinkles the skin of his face in a strange way, scar tissue pulling in unnatural angles. Its a large mark, crossing over some of the most delicate areas of the face without care. I wonder how it happened, how he survived it. Did he have a guardian at one point too?

He pats the thick plastic of my helmet, "I think we're done for today. I don't want you getting even more banged up."

Frowning, I unbuckle the strap, pulling the thing off of my head and letting it fall in the grass, "I'm supposed to be getting better." I mumble, sharp disappointment settling in my gut.

"Its only our second day, Till. You're doing just fine." Isaac says calmly, "You've got plenty of time."

His voice is soft. Its depth carrying experience I could never hope to match. Its evenness commanding an authority I had never witnessed. He's nothing like what I had expected.

Vicious and violent, the rebellion was painted as a band of feral humans, death and destruction following wherever they were spotted. The Segyeins wanted us to believe they were evil. To take away their power and keep us in our cages.

But it's not that way at all. There are children here, humans too young to care for themselves. Humans who need a guardian to give them food and sponsorship. And there are humans who fill that need.

Humans caring for other humans. Its something I've never seen before. Something I barely knew was possible. None of the children carry the marks I grew so familiar with. They don't cower from anger or lash out in fear.

They laugh.

Like we did in the garden. When it seemed like the competition was light years away and we had all the time in the world.

It makes my chest feel strange, twisting and winding over indescribable emotions.

How would things be different if we'd grown up here? If we didn't have to live in fear?

Would he still steal my pencils?

Would I still pretend to be angry?

"Mizi is in a meeting with Hyuna, so don't worry. I know you two are having a rough patch right now." Isaac hums, taking the bicycle from me and propping it on the side of the building.

I grimace, not wanting to think about her, "It's fine," worms its way from between my lips. A lie that festers in the open air, made rancid in the heat of the sun.

He hums, "I heard you fought. It's hard to be that angry at someone you're so close to. What happened?"

Sighing, I shake my head, unwilling to play his game. As much as she'd done, I have no business painting her as a villain in front of one of the most powerful people here. And that's assuming he believes me.

Mizi is a good person.

I have to believe that.

She's just a bit lost right now.

"We've got a lot of history, yeah? Stay out of it." I grumble, crossing my arms.

He smiles, almost fondly, "So I've heard." Before his smile fades a bit, into something more strained, "I hear a lot of things around here. If something is going on, if you need help, that's what we're here for."

"You're not an animal, Till. You shouldn't be treated like one."

All at once, my skin feels cold and clammy, the phantom spray of a water hose painting me black and blue. The water pressure stealing my breath as I try to hide my face, try to breathe through the onslaught of liquid, her fingers digging trenches in my cheekbones, trying to clean a stain that will never wash away, his teeth on my lips, the air from his lungs heavy in my own.

"Fuck you!" I shout, far too loudly for even my own comfort, fingers twitching in surprise. Dewey's head shoots up, staring in the direction, preparing to step in at a moment's notice.

Isaac doesn't even flinch, just stares at me with those calm, flat eyes.

"I know that," I mutter, much quieter than before, an unspoken apology, a retreat.

He just smiles, "I think you might really enjoy going out with us sometime. Get some fresh air?"

I look around, confusion clouding my mind, "We're outside right now?" I ask and it sounds like Ivan, matter of fact to a fault and endlessly amazed at the audacity.

Isaac laughs, "Sure, but it helps to get a change of scenery every once in a while. Even this place gets a bit stuffy."

"He'll have to learn how to ride a bike first, though! Can't have the Segyeins nabbing his ass on the first run!" Dewey shouts from a distance, ever the nag.

I roll my eyes, throwing up a lazy middle finger and turning back to Isaac, "I want to do something useful."

*****

The curtain looks different each time I come here. Crinkled plastic worn around the edge that's been pushed out of the way too many times. A light blue pastel, unassuming and inoffensive, far too sterile for my own tastes.

The faint crackle of a radio filters through the barrier, the sound of life. Something I'll have to get used to again. Something I'm not sure I realized I had forgotten.

I push through the light plastic, entering the space with a muttered greeting as I fix the curtain closed behind me.

My chest burns slightly with embarrassment as I turn towards him once again. His eyes are bright, slight tilt to his lip as he murmurs a greeting in response.

He looks more like himself. His hair has been washed and he's somehow acquired a light sweater. I had tried to get some better clothing or blankets for him before, but they would never listen, saying it would make it harder to treat his wounds.

I suppose he was always better at speaking than me. He could somehow always get what he needed.

"You look awfully comfy, Ivan." I laugh, taking my seat next to him.

He grins, the same expression he'd make before he would say the most brain-dead, irritating thing I'd ever heard. When he wanted to get under my skin and make me question everything I'd ever felt.

"Jealous?" He hums, "There's plenty of room if you want to join me."

I feel my cheeks go hot as soon as the words leave his mouth. Constantly saying ridiculous things just to get me riled, I could never figure out if he meant it or not.

I huff, crossing my arms, "Shut up, you'll get hurt."

"Oh, so you would if I wasn't injured?" He quirks a brow, sounding very pleased with himself.

"That's not what I said!" I shout, voice cracking with the urgency. I try to compose myself, shrinking further into my jacket with a second, mumbled, "Shut up."

He hums, looking at me with the strangest expression. Brows creased ever so slightly, deep, black eyes roaming over features he has to have memorized by now.

Did he miss me?

In the moments before he lost consciousness, when both of us thought he was dead, did he mourn?

The things we had shared our entire lives, the things we'd never get the chance to. Did he think about it all?

Does he still miss what could've been?

Am I doing enough?

"Last time you were here, you dropped this." He says, holding out the little bottle of nail polish i'd brought along last time.

I grimace slightly, taking the bottle from his fingers to give it a look over. It was a sort of off-white color, vanilla in its warmth but not quite so dark. I never got to use many colors back home.

It was meant to cover the stains on his fingernails, the ones I'd never been able to clean out. To cover them as if they'd never existed at all. To return him to the cleanliness he always touts.

It was supposed to fix him.

Now it just feels wrong.

It's obvious I put thought into my choice, agonizing over something as silly and small as a color for days on end. I should've just picked something random, something I'd wear. That would've been far less embarrassing.

I feel my ears grow hot once again as I look back at him, "Are you sure you want me to? Do you like the color?"

He returns a blank stare, nodding determinedly. It eases some of the embarrassment coiling in my gut and I smile, shaking my head.

He always took the most mundane things so seriously. As if he were being graded on living a normal life. As if he had to smile a certain way to be considered an equal.

Maybe he did.

Maybe that's what his training was about. No harsh hands and shouting, just a quiet control seeping into every part of his life.

I would much rather see his blank stare than have to see that strained smile again, bruises on his cheeks and tears in his eyes.

i don't care how it looks, I just want it to be real.

"Don't just stare at me, then," I mutter, still holding back a smile, "Tell me about your book or something."

He practically lights up at the question, an ease falling over his features that I haven't seen in far too long. He smiles, not as explicit as the word sounds, but there all the same. Its in the faint lines at the corner of his eyes, the tiniest crinkle of his nose. If anything, it's more of a grimace than a smile.

But it's real.

And it's familiar.

And it's beautiful.

"I'm surprised you asked!" He starts, launching into what's sure to be a lengthy description, "Well the main character, she's a little bit of a puzzle..."

I let the smile twist my lips fully now, the familiar safety washing over me like seawater on the shore. My chest is warm with it, a heaviness I've missed. One I've never quite been able to name.

I grab his hand, listening to his chatter as I work on his nails. The right hand is easy, far less stained than the other. He fell on his left. That's where the thick bandages are. The ones I've always been too afraid to touch. The ones I could hardly look at without losing myself.

I blow on the paint, letting it dry a bit before I switch over to the other side. His fingers twitch slightly between my own and his voice falls quiet.

"It doesn't feel hot." He says, confusion lacing his tone as he stares down at me.

I can't stifle the incredulous giggle as I stare back at him, "I'm helping it dry, moron."

His cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink, lips forming a quiet "Oh," as he continues to stare.

It's hard to look away, his grip loose against my own, fingers practically limp, inches away from my mouth. I give up the pretense of drying paint, lips parting with disuse.

Has he always been so mesmerizing?

I remember our days in the garden, when I'd have to tear my eyes away for fear he'd find out. I'm not even sure what I was afraid of saying. What I didn't want him to know. But it was terrifying and visceral, clawing out of my chest and filling my head with the most ridiculous scenarios.

Was it strength that kept me pulling myself away?

Was it really so bad to let myself fall into whatever there was between us?

Or was it weakness?

Was I just afraid that he'd see too much and I wouldn't be able to handle the rejection?

Knowing that he's the one person I could never live without.

The one I took for granted far too often because just the thought of him leaving was so inconceivable, I'd rather push him away myself.

"Sorry," I mutter, blinking and looking away, "That side should be good now."

"Till?" He questions, soft as ever.

I can't look back.

I'm afraid I'll never be able to look away again.

And I'm afraid of what will happen then.

Of what that means.

Of what I want it to mean.

I move over to his left side, carefully lifting his hand to examine the yellow-brown stains on the keratin, "Is this okay?" I ask, always aware of the bandages that lie beneath the sheets and the soft fabric of his sweater.

He hums and I see him nod from the corner of my eye.

I don't dare to make eye contact again.

”Keep talking. I didn't mean to interrupt." I murmur, already brushing the pale white on.

His fingers are soft. Pinching each one between my thumb and forefinger to get a better grip, they're thin, almost delicate in their construction. And warm. So warm, I wonder if maybe it's just my hands that are cold.

His fingers twitch again and he keeps talking, "You didn't interrupt. I believe I left off where the lead found out she was sold off in an arranged marriage..."

I roll my eyes, unease seeping away under the warmth of his hands and the blanket of his voice. I will never understand how he can read such garbage, but maybe I'll have to ask him about it more often. If it makes him smile the way he is now ... Why haven't I done this before?

I keep painting, my chest twisting with the strange fullness I've been feeling since he woke up. Gratitude maybe? Relief?

But there's a sharpness to it that doesn't fit. A hunger. Like the air isn't enough to satiate my lungs unless he's already breathed it. Like sitting in the visitor's chair isn't close enough. Like if I touch him, the space between us might disappear altogether, melding together all that we were and ever will be. Like maybe that's what I need.

I cap the bottle with one hand, adjusting my grip on his wrist with the other. My fingers brush across something thin and hard and the breath dies in my throat before I can force it out.

His tag.

Four letters, sharp and unforgiving, etched into the skin, little metal strips sealing his fate, sending him to die.

Ivan's voice becomes static as I gently turn his wrist upright, exposing the veins, pushing the sleeve of his sweater back until the fluorescent lights reflect off of the lettering like a neon sign.

It's the same material. The same silver pieces I'd laid on my dresser this morning. Yet they look so different on his skin. I run my fingers over the lines, tracing the path the laser must've made, each sharp turn a momentary relief from the agony.

I hadn't really noticed his tag before, too focused on wiping the gore from his skin to think about it. And after we received them, he always seemed to keep it covered. Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe he felt the same as I did. Like it was a brand of inadequacy for all to see, ownership in its purest form.

Did he hate being a pet too?

I can barely breathe as I stare, tracing idle shapes across the veins. Such a vital spot to point such sharp tools, cruel even. A place filled with tendons and arteries, where one wrong move would lead to permanent damage.

I had always thought his guardian was generous in his placement of Ivan's tag, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was cruelty disguised as benevolence.

Somehow, that's infinitely worse.

I feel my stomach twist with the injustice of it, tracing up and down the right side of the 'A' like a mantra. Those little metal lines were something we shared.

Will he think differently of me now that mine are gone?

Will he think that I did it on purpose? That I found them so hideous that I asked for them to be removed?

Is that why he hides it?

Because of me?

Because I complained about my own tag so much that he began to hate his too?

Warmth pulls me out of my spiral, fingertips on the curve of my cheekbone. The pad of his thumb rubbing a reassuring pattern into the skin, guiding my chin up until I'm pulled back into his magnetic gaze.

"Till?" His brows are curved in worry, "Are you okay?"

I hum noncommittally, finding it difficult to do much else but return his stare. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, betraying something deep and buried.

He slides his other hand out of my grasp, tilting my face to the side and prodding gently at the bruises I'd received from Mizi barely a day prior. The warmth of swelling had gone overnight, leaving just the tough knots behind. Something I'm sure he noticed the moment I walked in but neglected to address until now.

Letting my eyes slide closed, I breathe an "I'm okay," hardly loud enough to reach even my own ears.

I drink in the feeling of his fingertips, searching the bruises like they'll disappear if you poke them enough. The warmth spreads over my skin like sunlight, from the light grip underneath my ear, each swipe of his fingertips like the birth of a new star.

I never want him to stop.

His breath shakes, wet and uncertain, "Till?"

I sigh, staring at him through half-lidded eyes, practically begging him to keep going.

Pathetic, really.

But I can't remember the last time I felt so calm.

I want to hang onto that hazy joy for as long as possible.

He blinks at me, eyes wide and brows raised high. His lips are parted, poised for a question that seems to have died on his tongue.

I close my eyes again, taking a deep breath and pulling away from his hands, cold taking his place almost immediately. I don't even ask permission, too tired for niceties, already missing the comfort his fingers seemed to plant inside my veins, blooming into a warm blanket that covered all my blind spots. I lean forward, resting my head against the soft bumps his legs make from under the blankets.

It's somehow even better than his hands.

Warmth billowing out from beneath the layers of blankets, I press my nose into the space between his knees, wanting to be closer.

Wanting him closer.

"Till, are you sure you're alright?" Ivan questions a little warily.

I huff, glancing at him, "She wants me to stop coming here ... stop visiting."

His confusion hardens into something more severe, "I don't understand."

I laugh, rolling my eyes and pressing my cheekbone into his thigh, looking up at him, "Yeah, neither do I. She's worried, I guess? That I'll hurt myself? Its fucking stupid."

"Why would she be worried about that?" His eyes are calm again, bathing me in their reassurance.

I shrug awkwardly from my sideways angle, "She's not who I thought she was, Ivan."

The admittance brings tears unbidden, locking up my throat as I choke on the emotion, staring down the pile of blankets at his waist, knowing I'll lose it if I look up. Knowing he'll break me and I'll tell him everything. Knowing he'll barely have to try.

"She's just trying to protect us. We're all she has left, it makes sense." I ramble, "I have to believe she has a reason." My voice is barely a whisper by the end, "But she scares me, Ivan."

He hums and ever so slowly begins to card his fingers through my hair, "I heard you both fighting."

I frown, burying my face even farther, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. I was just upset."

He hums again and I can feel him nodding based on the movement of the rest of his body. He doesn't say anything, letting me finish.

"She was lying to me, Ivan. Hiding things from me. I just want her to tell me things, to trust me." I sigh, trying to breathe through the anger roiling in my gut once again, "I'm not a child."

He keeps the gentle rhythm, scratching newly painted fingertips across my scalp. He smells cleaner than before, hospital soap mixing with the sharp scent of the polish, the slightest hint of iron, strangely sweet in its tang.

"I understand." He murmurs.

I make a small noise in return, "It's okay if you don't."

His fingers still against my skin for just a moment, his breath fanning across my cheekbone. It causes a stray strand of hair to tickle against my nose. He's quick to swipe it out of the way, tucked softly behind my ear.

"I don't understand," he admits, pausing for a moment, "It doesn't sound like her."

I hum in agreement, letting the room fall silent around us, focusing on the patterns he makes. How his smallest finger never really touches, how his thumb brushes across the skin of my hairline every so often. The care of it all. Not the gaudy pampering of the makeup crew before a show, but an innocent appreciation.

I feel safe here.

"This was always my favorite part of the day, y'know," I murmur, "Just laying around somewhere with you."

His fingers twitch in their routine around my ear, quickly regaining their composure and resuming their trek.

"I missed you a lot, when we'd go home for weekends." My cheeks go red, embarrassment flaring in my stomach from what I'm admitting, "I-" The syllable falls flat, silence covering us both as my heart clenches with anxiety.

But his voice smoothes everything over before I even have a chance to panic, "I missed you too."

I cant help the tiny smile that twists my lips as I turn back into him. Its an electric feeling that lights up every nerve ending, like candy on an empty stomach.

It's infectious.

A billion words sit on the tip of my tongue, begging for my voice, but I don't know what any of them mean. If i start talking now, I'm afraid I'll never be able to stop.

How can I tell him something I don't even know how to say?

I peek up at him through squinted eyes and he's still looking down at me. His brows quirked at an angle and his eyes full of something, like he's staring at the most precious thing in the world.

It's the same thing I feel reflected in myself. The same feeling I get while just being in the same room.

Can he see it in me too?

"When you get better, would you stay in my room?" I ask, still squinting at him, "I may be an asshole, but I really hate being alone in there."

Ivan smiles. Not the plastered on one he was trained for, but a gentle curve at the corner of his lips, a playful glint in his eye. "You're not an asshole, Till" he retorts, "You're just not very nice sometimes."

I open my eyes fully now, an incredulous laugh slipping out, "I can be nice!"

It's silly and useless.

It's just like we used to.

When had I become so sentimental?

When had I forgotten how to separate his name from mine?

Was it after his blood stained us both, when I spent hours trying to scrub it clean?

Or when my tag was removed, useless strips of metal the only thing left to define who I'm supposed to be?

Or maybe it's always been this way.

The carbonation in my veins when he looks at me a certain way is nothing new. I still can't look at his eyelashes too long. I still draw him all the time.

How could I not?

Growing up it was always one disaster after the next. I was always in pain, always afraid of the next thing I wouldn't be able to stop.

I used to think I was angry, but in truth, I was terrified.

The only moments of respite, when I could breathe a little easier, were when he was there with me. When he was watching my back.

The pain he caused was predictable, friendly even. Because he wasn't trying to cause pain at all.

I see that now.

It was attention. He wanted me to look at him. And I gave him exactly what he wanted every single time.

I think he made me realize that's always what I wanted too.

"Please don't leave me again," I whisper, barely audible, curling the blanket next to his hip in my fist, "I need you."

The admittance is cold and pathetic, but he accepts it with open arms. Fingers continuing their delicate dance across my scalp, his other hand reaches around to rest on my back, just a simple reassurance of presence. A warm reminder that he's here.

"I'm sorry, Till" he whispers, equally as soft. I barely catch the syllables from under the blanket of warmth he's created for me, "I didn't know."