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Every time he closed his eyes, he not only saw a face, but heard his voice. Low and steady as it was in life, face pale as it was as he died.
The only thing that he couldn’t experience was the warmth of his lips, like the first and only kiss he had given him- he hadn’t kissed anyone since- he doubted he ever would again.
It had been months since then. Since all of Alien Stage was burned by his first infatuation, and since Ivan sacrificed himself for his love towards Till. Till had never thought of Ivan like that, never thought of how he acted around him in a romantic sense, but now, as he rotted in bed, no voice and hardly any breath, it’s all he could think about.
He was lonely, and he wanted that brief moment of love to wash over him again, to shelter him from reality.
He knew at some point, he would have to get up and help the rebellion. He owed it to them, considering all they had done, but he didn’t want to leave this room, where it was just him and Ivan.
In this room, quiet as it may seem, he constantly heard his voice.
He spoke meaningless words, and asked him about his day, and he absolutely hated it. It was like nothing had happened, and like he was actually here in the room with him. He knew it wasn’t Ivan- it was his mind's pale imitation of what he would be acting like, and didn’t cooperate with reality. Sometimes, how he acted would change with Till’s confusion and mixed feelings around him- touching him, kissing him like he couldn’t hear him saying to stop, or rambling on when Till said he wasn’t listening. It hurt, because in his heart, beyond what his mind struggled to comprehend, he knew, he knew Ivan wouldn’t do those things. That night was different. He was going to die.
He could hardly find it in himself to do anything, to find any passion for life when all he loved had withered away under the neon lights of the stage.
He didn’t have many childhood friends, but Mizi, one of the only people he cared for was missing and would probably never be found, Sua, Acorn and Marty, although he never was close with them, found solace in their presence, all dead, and Ivan… the only person in his life other than his mother to love him. Nothing was left for him. He was alone.
Out of all of the contestants, why hadn’t the Rebellion saved more? Saved anyone but him? Why not Ivan, or Sua, or any of the fallen?- If they were but a few hours, a day earlier, he could’ve grown old with his friends, escaped, and had time to work out his feelings for Ivan. Given a chance for him to express his feelings rather than the messy kiss they exchanged until the pelting rain and scrutinising gaze of the crowd.
Every time he thought of them all, he cried. He cried for what was lost, and cried for what he never had in the first place. Most of all, he cried for the loneliness he felt. No one else had survived, and if they did, they were long gone anyways. Even though Mizi was alive, she had never once stopped by to check on him, never left a hint or trace of where she was going.
The only thing he had was the mirage of a man whose body was long cold, to talk to him and let him talk back with his broken throat, and a group of people who hardly knew he could speak.
Nothing was left for him.