the thing is that no one ever taught ivan how to love. no one really taught ivan what love is, even—how to give it, when to hold it back, how to take it, and what it felt like to be cherished and valued and loved, loved, loved. can he be blamed for going about it in all the wrong ways?
on the other hand, till has never not been loved. he’s been hated, abused, dehumanized, put through horror after horror. but through it all, from life to—from birth, love always found its way to him. but he didn’t exactly have the words for it, either. didn’t have the words to express his own love, actually. so used to receiving it, his only way of giving it back was through song. sharing his happiness. it’s not his fault that he couldn’t see how that might never occur to someone to do, who had never experienced real happiness before.
still, love is the most human thing of all. even in the blackest of sorrows, it will find a way.
read this on AO3 — WE AREN’T HEROES —
https://archiveofourown.org/works/61117030
ivan leaned back against the plush couch he was sitting on, affecting coolness, calmness. it wouldn’t do to let the aliens surrounding him on all sides know of any emotional turmoil beneath his mask—it would be a weakness for them to exploit, a new and crueler show to force ivan to dance to, or simply upset their celebratory atmosphere and result in punishment. or worse, they’d send him home, leaving till here by himself.
pretending to smile and laugh at something said to the group formed around him, ivan shifted position, sweeping his gaze across the large and segmented party room, looking for till. he wasn’t dealing with mitzi’s disappearance well, nor sua’s—the four of them weren’t confidantes, but they were constant companions in the garden. rather, they had been. till was sitting quietly, a concept that clashed desperately with the furious wreck of energy and emotion that ivan knew till to be. till was sitting quietly at a table next to his owner, a foul mouthed alien whose cruelty was matched only by his wealth. painful circles were carved beneath his eyes. till usually looked sleepless, but it also usually contrasted against a bright burning of life in his eyes, spite and music and hope. but his eyes were lifeless. dim. and it revealed just how beaten and abused his body really was.
he looked like an entirely different person to his stage portrait—and every time ivan saw it, he felt sick. he thought of all the nights he’d crawled into till’s medical bed, held his hand as he slept in fits and starts, yanking out of sleep with sharp jerks and flinching away from ivan every time he awoke, until till recognized ivan’s face, and relaxed again. ivan stayed awake, eyes unblinking, watching to make sure till would not be spirited away in the night. and just watching. he couldn’t explain why, but something about till was just so deeply fascinating to ivan. till was attractive, yes, and ivan would call him beautiful, actually, especially when he was sparkin’ mad or embarrassed. but the aliens tired of beauty quickly. faster and faster all the time. and anyway, would ivan feel so protective of a particularly gorgeous piece of art?
till stared blankly into the plate of food set in front of him, and ivan’s hand twitched into a fist. he was so close, maybe if ivan excused himself to the bathroom, he could just brush his fingertips across till’s shoulders—anything, anything to banish the deathly stillness ivan was watching now.
a loud bang of a hand, much larger and with more digits than ivan’s, slammed the couch next to ivan’s leg. “[you are not paying attention!]” the alien snapped several times in front of ivan’s face. “[do not make me get the rod, and ruin the party for my guests.]”
another alien, with long drooping antennae sprouting where a human’s hair might grow, placed a hand on the first’s arm and purred, “[such a thing can be entertaining on its own, actually. have you heard of—]”
across the way, till’s alien yanked on his collar. till almost fell out of his chair, catching himself only at the last second. till’s alien gestured to the stage, and another yanked till to his feet, then shoved him up to the microphone. the music started, and a selfish part of ivan was almost excited to hear till sing (he always wanted to hear till singing) (a sound beaten only by till’s laughter, a throaty, obnoxious sound that came all too rarely). ivan tensed. till looked so far away, so glazed over. his cue to begin singing came and went. he only stared at the microphone.
till’s alien went fast to violence. never one for patience. grabbing till by the face. forcing him down. ivan was standing, was taking faltering half-steps towards till. what could he do? what could he do? wracking his brain in desperation. clicks and hisses of irritation from the aliens he was meant to be entertaining.
then till snapped. reared back. launched himself at his alien. a sound of shattering glass—till had a bottle in his hand. was using it to beat his alien bloody. thud after thud.
ivan was terrified, angry. with who, for what, he couldn’t say.
chaos. guests surged away as bodyguards and other pet owners surged forward, eager to please, eager to demonstrate their own training prowess. ivan moved to get closer, unsure of what to do, but just listening to an animal instinct that said as long as ivan kept his eyes on him, till would be fine. so long as ivan kept till in his sights, it would all be okay. (never mind that this had not stopped them from both being drafted for this season.)
ivan’s own alien was not at the party, so it was the one with the fleshy hands that assumed responsibility for human pet Ivan. it grabbed a thick handful of ivan’s hair and yanked him backward. ivan resisted by instinct, scalp burning. there was yelling in his face, painful in his ears. he ignored it, trying to see what they were doing to till. there was a human yelp, an involuntary sound of pain, and then several sick thuds. ivan’s guest kicked at ivan’s legs, forcing him to the ground with a bang against his knees that would surely bruise.
he gave in. he crouched and raised his hands in front of him, showing he was cooperative, he was nonviolent, he was a good little human pet, wasn’t he? his heart twisting the whole time. he couldn’t see till, but he could hear. the whole thing, he could hear with crystal clarity.
when it was over, the pets were all shuffled out of the party, maybe as a punishment, maybe for security, maybe as a reminder that they were kept around only for entertainment and little else. all of them but till. as ivan limped—slightly, only slightly—past the opulence of the aliens’ banquet, he saw till slumped on the ground next to his alien, the creature’s hand in till’s hair, possessive and dominant.
ivan could do nothing but continue limping out of the party. sick to his stomach with his own helplessness, and angry at till for giving up on his own life so easily.
hours and hours later, ivan finally found him. till was passed out in the same place, the same position, and leaning against the sofa next to him, still on the floor. bruises of deep mariner blue and sunset purple had already formed along his jaw, a sight that made ivan’s heart stutter. what had he been thinking? years, they’d been doing this. what had made him snap this time?
ivan crouched beside till’s sleeping form and unlocked his muzzle with one small motion. till’s breaths were alarmingly shallow. ivan lightly, as gently as he could, brushed his fingers across the bruises. cold heat gathered in ivan’s head. useless, he’d been. useless, till was. just the same as mizi. just the same as sua (sua, who was dead now. who’d sacrificed her life for someone who was also never going to get out of this place alive) (sua, who ivan had felt contempt for, every time she shared a happy moment with mizi, planning the whole time to die for her).
ivan’s body suddenly felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. he put a hand against the wall to brace himself, leaning down more closely to till. even in his sleep, he looked troubled. no, he looked more animated than other people. than ivan, whose mask of ice wasn’t something he intended to wear. any amount of emotion on till’s face seemed obscene with ivan in the room.
till… was it thoughts of mizi that made him snap? had till even known that ivan was in the room with him, not fifteen feet away? what had sua been thinking, as she climbed the steps to the stage, as she greeted the person she cared for more than any other, knowing that only one of them would walk away? as she put in action her plan to be the one who fell, lifeless, and forced the other to live on with the pain of that loss?
what was ivan going to do tomorrow, when he was faced with the same?
they were too old now to sleep in the same bed, but ivan wished they could anyway. it would be their last night together, whoever won (whatever he decided). softly, he leaned down and pressed his forehead to till’s, breathing in his scent. his skin was rough, but ivan had always liked things with an edge.
in that half-caress, ivan let his eyes drift closed, and made his choice.
