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Ivan felt Till's chest rise and fall beneath his temple. As Till's breathing began to change into wakefulness, he turned his face into Till's stomach, hiding it.
Till didn't seem surprised to see that Ivan was there, lying on him. For a good while, Ivan had knelt at Till's side and held his head in the crook of Till's neck; long after his own neck had started cramping, he finally moved to drape himself over Till, slumped over the little couch the segyein had dumped him on, and listened to Till's heart beat steadily in his chest.
Till stayed very still, like he thought Ivan was sleeping. He shifted a little, carefully, and Ivan imagined that he was looking down at him with annoyance and disdain. He pushed his face deeper into Till's stomach. Till let out a noise of what Ivan thought might be pain. He let up and turned his face to the side again, and looked up at Till's eyes, which were looking down sharply at him.
"Good morning," Ivan whispered.
"What are you doing," Till asked flatly.
In lieu of a response, Ivan buried his face in Till's stomach again. Till sighed, and let him be. After a while, he put a hand on the nape of Ivan's neck. Ivan squeezed his shut eyes tightly. They stayed like that for a while until Till shifted again and said, "Ivan, get up." Ivan didn't move, just kept his face in Till's stomach and tried not to think about how he would never have this simple touch again.
"Ivan," Till said, and then again, hissing, "Ivan! Get off me!"
Ivan dug his face in deeper for a second, breathing in Till's scent. Then he lifted his head and rolled off of Till. He clambered up to slouch at Till's side and breathe in this moment, let Till's warmth burn into his side.
Till groaned. "Do you always have to attach yourself to my side?" he asked, rolling his eyes.
"Yes," Ivan replied, dropping his head onto Till's shoulder. He wasn't in the mood, and nor did he have the energy for it, to argue. Till threw his head back, exasperated. Eventually, he gave in, and put his hand back on the nape of Ivan's neck. They stayed like that for a long time, silent.
"We're going up against each other next round," Till said, breaking the silence.
"We've been practicing together for the last week," Ivan said into Till's shoulder. He felt Till's glare on him, which he didn't have to memorize, because he'd had that glare turned on him since, probably, the day they'd met. But he brought it up in his mind anyway: those cool green eyes, focused solely on Ivan and no one else, which these days was what Ivan needed more than air. Till's attention was better than oxygen anyway, better than food and water and getting to live another day on Alien Stage.
He felt Till's eyes turn away from him before Till whispered, "You're going to win."
Ivan closed his eyes. His stomach flipped. "You don't know that," he said.
"Yes, I do," Till said loudly. "You're literally more favored than I am."
"You have the fastest-selling albums," Ivan pointed out, pointlessly. It didn't really matter if he had the better odds. He knew what Till didn't. He knew what he would be doing in the next round, and he knew that Till wouldn't be stopping him. He wouldn't be able to.
"They like your voice better," Till replied. "They like how compliant you are. They like that you're better without even trying." There was resentment in his voice.
"You're good," Ivan said, hopelessly inadequate. He was the least eloquent person in the world. Till had a way with words that no one could emulate, especially not Ivan, who could barely smile the correct way. "You're ..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. Suddenly, he remembered something he'd told Mizi when they were kids. "Like Mizi," he said softly, unsure of how it might land. Till went rigid, but didn't push Ivan off, so he continued. "When she, ah ... dueted with Sua. They sang well apart, but it always sounded best when they sang together. They put ..." His jaw twitched. He swallowed. "It was like they were opening their hearts to each other when they sang together." He stopped again. "But your voice ... is meant to be alone." Till kept breathing, slowly, and Ivan listened for any change, any sign that what he was saying affected Till. He found none. "It's like you put everything you have into every song." He repeated what he'd said to Mizi all those years ago. "When you sing, it's like I know the words even without ever having known them."
Till was quiet for a moment. Then he said, faintly, "That's how I feel too," he said. A pause. Louder: "When you sing." He paused again, and then said, "In the third round ... I was knocked out, but ..." He snorted. "I swear, your song was affecting my dreams. They were so ..." He moved his arms, made a gesture Ivan didn't see. "You know?" Ivan did not know, but he nodded anyway. "Yeah," Till said, quiet again. "When I woke up at the end of your song, I thought to myself, oh, that's why they were like that. Because you were singing." He stopped himself there.
Ivan squeezed his eyes shut again. He wanted moments like this more than anything, even more than Till's full focus on him alone. At the same time, he hated it. He knew neither of them would ever admit these things if everything was normal. But he wished with his whole being that Till and he would have moments like these again, when Till came to the afterlife years after he'd won Alien Stage. When they could do everything freely.
He buried his face deeper in Till's shoulder. He knew what would happen tomorrow, and he felt his stomach turn harshly.