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Sweet Dream

Ivan. . .

"Not real. . ."

Get up.

Red dots.

Deafening silence.

Blinding lights.

Blood seeps into his clothes, stains his hands, dirties his shoes.

Till's throat hurts, his vision tinted red. "No. . ." he whimpers. "It can't be—"

Real?

Ivan simply lays there, oblivious to it all.

He looks so. . .

A weight sits heavy on his shoulders, crushes his lungs, forces him to close his eyes against the image of his chest collapsing.

Then it all disappears, as quickly as it had come, leaving only the ghost of gray grief behind.

When he opens his eyes, he's met with an ever stretching, ever crystalized turquoise ocean. An infinite jade green prairie spreads out around him, and he has to squint to protect his eyes from the dazzling sun.

"Anakt Garden?"

All of a sudden, Till feels just the same Ivan had looked on the Stage.

Peaceful.

So, so peaceful.

He takes in a deep breath, surveying that sparkling sea for a moment before reality begins to settle in.

This place is the same as before, he thinks absently, why am I here?

A lazy breeze ruffles his hair, sticky sweat and dirt and all the downpour that had graced the Stage before—

But— as far as I remember— round 6 was over. . .

Flashes of red and white and black and blue assault his memory, clanging in his ears like symbols consisting of one single name.

Ivan. . .

A breathless sob crashes against the back of his teeth, eyes flaming as he levels a glare at that sparkling horizon.

"Iv—"

"Till?"

Till's eyes widen and he whips around, breathless, entirely disbelieving as his eyes search frantically for the source of that voice, the one he'd grown up with, the one he'd betrayed, the one he'd killed.

Through his watered gaze, he finally spots Ivan— not his Ivan, but a smaller, more childish version of him— sitting on the top of a gently slanted hill, hands paused where they stay weaving together those familiar red asters into a delicate crown.

The child tilts his head to the side, small features twisted in confusion.

"You're Till, aren't you?" He asks innocently. "Why do you look so weak?"

The child is on his way to ask another question when he's abruptly cut off, warmth enveloping his tiny frame in the form of a tight embrace, that lovely flower crown limp by his side.

Am I dreaming? The child thinks with a smile, closing his eyes contentedly as he clutches the flower crown tighter and wraps his own arms around the big boy who looks a lot like his Till.

But. . .

"Haha!" Ivan laughs, burying his nose in Big Till's shoulder. "I'm sure you're a fake Till."

He takes a deep breath, certain that this will be the only chance he's ever given and that he needs to scabble for every ounce of affection he can get. Ivan sighs, the thought heavy, his smile fading from his lips. "The real Till would never hug me."