[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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