[ a celebration party, they said. for the three finalists of alien stage.
for ivan, this means keeping up the same appearances he does with the brands that sponsor him. a practiced mimicry of charming smiles and honeyed words meant to please and appease, and he delivers them with flawless ease. the segyein are nicer to him, his guardian always spoiling him rotten, proud of the pet they nurtured into stardom. behaving is easy when it comes with years of habit, a stage to act outside of the stage, songs to sing without any real feeling, or emotion, or meaning. they cheer, still, applaud and spoil him all the same.
the same does not apply to one of the other finalists. there are crashing sounds across the wall, glass breaking, fiery scolding. it is nothing new, but it eats at his chest all the same, and ivan swallows it down with pained struggle.
it quiets down, eventually. with time, the segyein leave, or busy themselves with other pets, or find new entertainment. they're grown now, and the false freedom they're given is always facetious. there's always collars, muzzles, bracelets. ivan behaves as he's wont to do, but as he walks into the room next door, solemn eyes fall on one who does not, and never really have, and never really will. the ache on his chest continues to eat at him, as ivan kneels, and worries, and knows not how to properly offer a caring hand. his had, after all, touched the red of till's blood many times.
he's careful with the touching, at least. gentleness is something learned rather than nurtured, and through all of their bickering and fighting back in the garden, this is something that comes out with too much ease when till is involved, he finds. ivan cradles him with care, arms under knees and torso, lifting him up like a delicate possession. the floor doesn't suit him.
there's a bed nearby, for the segyein that might drink themselves to unconsciousness. it's big, soft, comfortable. better than anything till might have experienced, he knows, and lays him down with equal gentleness to avoid any more unnecessary hurt. ideally a change of clothes would be best, but nothing's ever really easy for them - so instead, ivan opts to ruin a small part of his outfit, rip it off with a nearby knife used for food, knows his guardian would eat whatever lie he gives them about it.
he douses it with water he can find from the party, and that same gentleness he had learned from watching others, ivan attempts as he dabs over any dirt, sweat and other far less favorable fluids found on till's face - with measured care not to rouse him. if he does, at the very least... that it may be a startle, a rekindled flame, burning for his independence and burning at ivan's hands, burning away from care that is much unlike him.
it would be easier to explain aggression than the true weight of his feelings, after all. ]
[ ... Maybe he would have enjoyed a toast to his success. Touted as a genius since young, he never doubted the scores he scribed on paper by his very hand, but other pets had more support, who knew the words to say during interviews and commercials—he's made it despite temperament and birth. 50% off discount on display at the slums bruised and unwanted for being unruly, now top three of Alien Stage.
Does any of this matter, he wonders.
A microphone is in front of him and a screen illuminates his back, he sees the segyein he's meant to entertain and woo tonight. They wait for him to sing the song on play, one he knows too well. Oh, my Clematis. Hope bloomed through the abyss. Oh, my Clematis. Always be by my side. Every beat has his heart contort, twist, and a darkness fills its valves as he thinks back to the last round. Mizi, crazed and wild, at the end of a guard's gun... Then gone after the thick smoke cleared.
They don't care about his turmoil or his dread. The segyein demand their canaries to sing, even if there's no desire. Till remembers a large hand over his mouth, then being forced over the table, head shoved against the article about the very scene playing in his mind. They talk poorly of her... They call her violent. Disruptive. Poorly trained. Just like him.
No, that isn't the Mizi he knows. It doesn't matter if he is outnumbered—he would never let anyone smear her name. His night soon ends when he grabs a glass and lets his rage run through his veins.
Regret doesn't trail after his heels when a collar clicks around his neck, neutralizing the anger. Even when they █████ ████ ██ ███████ █████ ███ ████ ██████ ███ ███████ ████ ███████ ██████ ████, then the collar is changed for a muzzle. ██████ █████████ ███ ███ █ ████████ ███ ████ ████ ███████ ██████ █████ ███. ████████ ████ ███ ██████ disheveled, on the floor ████ ███████ ██████ ████ ███████ ███████ ███ ██████. He won't let them ruin what he has left of Mizi. █████████ █████ ███████ He won't let them take away her kind eyes, ████ ██ ████████ ████ her smile ████ ████ ██ her outstretched hand, the recorder... ██████ ███ █ ██████ He still treasures it. ████ ██ █████████ ███ ███ █████ ███ ███████ ████ ██ ██████ █████ The pain is temporary and washes away when his puffy eyes flutter closed.
Till doesn't notice when he's relocated, too much of a ragdoll to put up any struggle as well. He dangles, the most behaved he has ever been. Any cognizant thought that runs through his mind is about his weariness. It and other influences sink in, through his flesh, deep into his bones, and what will he has to fight is snuffed for the night.
Thanks to her, in her grace, can he forget all that happened and he steels himself to survive the consequences to come... Yet in his sleep, he reaches out and finds Ivan's wrist. In the end, her apparition is not enough and desperation takes hold of him in his unconscious state. How desperately does he wish for warmth? The gentle and meticulous care in wiping his face has him crumble with shaking drawn shoulders. The rag may be dirty, but there's comfort in the shape of a kind hand, anyone's hand. He buries his face into the fabric to quiet the leftover sobs still in him. Dry, they're simply pathetic sounds with no tears left to cry.
Even this feels empty. How unfortunate that this may not be the reaction Ivan wanted. ]
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Date: 2024-04-13 02:48 am (UTC)for ivan, this means keeping up the same appearances he does with the brands that sponsor him. a practiced mimicry of charming smiles and honeyed words meant to please and appease, and he delivers them with flawless ease. the segyein are nicer to him, his guardian always spoiling him rotten, proud of the pet they nurtured into stardom. behaving is easy when it comes with years of habit, a stage to act outside of the stage, songs to sing without any real feeling, or emotion, or meaning. they cheer, still, applaud and spoil him all the same.
the same does not apply to one of the other finalists. there are crashing sounds across the wall, glass breaking, fiery scolding. it is nothing new, but it eats at his chest all the same, and ivan swallows it down with pained struggle.
it quiets down, eventually. with time, the segyein leave, or busy themselves with other pets, or find new entertainment. they're grown now, and the false freedom they're given is always facetious. there's always collars, muzzles, bracelets. ivan behaves as he's wont to do, but as he walks into the room next door, solemn eyes fall on one who does not, and never really have, and never really will. the ache on his chest continues to eat at him, as ivan kneels, and worries, and knows not how to properly offer a caring hand. his had, after all, touched the red of till's blood many times.
he's careful with the touching, at least. gentleness is something learned rather than nurtured, and through all of their bickering and fighting back in the garden, this is something that comes out with too much ease when till is involved, he finds. ivan cradles him with care, arms under knees and torso, lifting him up like a delicate possession. the floor doesn't suit him.
there's a bed nearby, for the segyein that might drink themselves to unconsciousness. it's big, soft, comfortable. better than anything till might have experienced, he knows, and lays him down with equal gentleness to avoid any more unnecessary hurt. ideally a change of clothes would be best, but nothing's ever really easy for them - so instead, ivan opts to ruin a small part of his outfit, rip it off with a nearby knife used for food, knows his guardian would eat whatever lie he gives them about it.
he douses it with water he can find from the party, and that same gentleness he had learned from watching others, ivan attempts as he dabs over any dirt, sweat and other far less favorable fluids found on till's face - with measured care not to rouse him. if he does, at the very least... that it may be a startle, a rekindled flame, burning for his independence and burning at ivan's hands, burning away from care that is much unlike him.
it would be easier to explain aggression than the true weight of his feelings, after all. ]
no subject
Date: 2024-04-13 07:03 am (UTC)Does any of this matter, he wonders.
A microphone is in front of him and a screen illuminates his back, he sees the segyein he's meant to entertain and woo tonight. They wait for him to sing the song on play, one he knows too well. Oh, my Clematis. Hope bloomed through the abyss. Oh, my Clematis. Always be by my side. Every beat has his heart contort, twist, and a darkness fills its valves as he thinks back to the last round. Mizi, crazed and wild, at the end of a guard's gun... Then gone after the thick smoke cleared.
They don't care about his turmoil or his dread. The segyein demand their canaries to sing, even if there's no desire. Till remembers a large hand over his mouth, then being forced over the table, head shoved against the article about the very scene playing in his mind. They talk poorly of her... They call her violent. Disruptive. Poorly trained. Just like him.
No, that isn't the Mizi he knows. It doesn't matter if he is outnumbered—he would never let anyone smear her name. His night soon ends when he grabs a glass and lets his rage run through his veins.
Regret doesn't trail after his heels when a collar clicks around his neck, neutralizing the anger. Even when they █████ ████ ██ ███████ █████ ███ ████ ██████ ███ ███████ ████ ███████ ██████ ████, then the collar is changed for a muzzle. ██████ █████████ ███ ███ █ ████████ ███ ████ ████ ███████ ██████ █████ ███. ████████ ████ ███ ██████ disheveled, on the floor ████ ███████ ██████ ████ ███████ ███████ ███ ██████. He won't let them ruin what he has left of Mizi. █████████ █████ ███████ He won't let them take away her kind eyes, ████ ██ ████████ ████ her smile ████ ████ ██ her outstretched hand, the recorder... ██████ ███ █ ██████ He still treasures it. ████ ██ █████████ ███ ███ █████ ███ ███████ ████ ██ ██████ █████ The pain is temporary and washes away when his puffy eyes flutter closed.
Till doesn't notice when he's relocated, too much of a ragdoll to put up any struggle as well. He dangles, the most behaved he has ever been. Any cognizant thought that runs through his mind is about his weariness. It and other influences sink in, through his flesh, deep into his bones, and what will he has to fight is snuffed for the night.
Thanks to her, in her grace, can he forget all that happened and he steels himself to survive the consequences to come... Yet in his sleep, he reaches out and finds Ivan's wrist. In the end, her apparition is not enough and desperation takes hold of him in his unconscious state. How desperately does he wish for warmth? The gentle and meticulous care in wiping his face has him crumble with shaking drawn shoulders. The rag may be dirty, but there's comfort in the shape of a kind hand, anyone's hand. He buries his face into the fabric to quiet the leftover sobs still in him. Dry, they're simply pathetic sounds with no tears left to cry.
Even this feels empty. How unfortunate that this may not be the reaction Ivan wanted. ]