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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.

So. . . peaceful.

Ivan just looked so, so peaceful.

Till takes in a sharp breath, surveying that sparkling sea for a moment and shaking off a particularly strong sense of doom. This place feels different, he thinks to distract himself, what am I doing here?

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

Round 6. . . it's 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. A name he's been ignoring, a name too painful to even think about, comes racing up his throat just as he feels rumbling beneath his feet.

He draws in a breath, intent on screaming until his lungs give out— he wants to say that name, when he hears a voice

"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 had been weaving together those familiar red asters into a delicate crown.

Ivan 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?"

". . ."

Ivan purses his little lips into a chubby pout, unsatisfied with the silence, and opens his mouth to ask another question when he's abruptly cut off. Warmth envelops his tiny frame in the form of a tight embrace, that lovely flower crown limp by his side.

Am I dreaming? Ivan 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.