[Day 25X] Round 6
Apr. 16th, 2025 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
liveindarknessCW: assault (forced kiss, strangulation)
*
The segyein—a rotund being with a hooked beak and fashionably dyed feathers—puts the finishing touches to your stage make-up. You don’t understand all of their chirping vocalizations, but you understand enough to get the gist: they’re cooing about how well-behaved you are, what a good pet you’re being; they’re rooting for you, honey.
Your face flexes in a meaningless smile. You cheerily thank them for their support as you’re released from the make-up chair. The segyein titters, pleased.
Another segyein, one of the many tall, slender, purple-furred beings employed by your guardian (owner) turns their wide, toothy grin at you. You follow them to the green room. Like an arrow finds a heart, your gaze finds the only other person worth anything in the room: a dark-clad figure slouched at the end of the couch next to you, gray hair hanging in his eyes.
Till. Till. Till.
You ignore the purple-furred arm pointing you to a couch across the room and take a seat at the other end of the couch from Till. You compose yourself to wait until the performance (your last performance) begins. Your gaze never leaves Till’s profile. Even broken like this, torn asunder by love, he is still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
Time passes. You answer questions from your handler, the guards, and the backstage staff on auto-pilot, smiling cheer never faltering. You warm up your voice as if you really mean to win this match. Till glances at you, once or twice, then looks away. Something in your chest aches when you see the empty look in his teal eyes.
It’s not right. Till is a fighter. If he won’t fight you—
…Well. There’s only ever been one outcome you'll accept for this match.
Time stops passing. The two of you are hurried out of the green room and pulled apart to opposite wings. You wait at your mark, out of the audience’s sight. The lights go on, revealing Till standing alone on the spare, empty stage. Everything that isn’t Till recedes into the darkness as his raw, aching voice soars into the still air.
You drink in every note, every phrase; you roll the taste of his pain and misery around your tongue like a starving man with his last morsel of food. You’d like to crack open his skull to observe the turbulence channeled into his voice up close; you want to sink your teeth into the pale curve of his throat and feel the vibration of every note against your lips. You want him to be anywhere but here, somewhere warm and safe and free, but of all the things you want, that has always been the most impossible.
Till’s voice fades, signaling the end of the first verse. You make your entrance, stepping into the stage lights and up to your mic. The second verse is yours, and as you sing, memories flicker through your mind, a lifetime of miserable longing. Even now, you’re still so greedy, so desperate to mean something to him. To be something worth fighting, if not fighting for. But you already know that you’ll never mean that much to him.
Artificial rain pours down on the two of you as the third verse starts. You’re supposed to trade lines here, but halfway through the verse, your call is met with no response. When you look across the stage, Till stands there at his mic, silent, waiting out the end of the song.
Too bad. You have no intention of letting him throw this match.
Your mic hits the ground with a final snarl of feedback. You barely feel the cold as you cross the stage, heart pounding. When Till turns to you, you grab his face and force your mouths together. His lips are cold against yours, slack with surprise, and you take advantage of that to press deeper into his mouth.
In the books you’ve read, the old human classics that have survived, kisses were expressions of love. Passion. Desire. What is happening now between the two of you is none of that. It’s your very simple plan to save Till’s life: in cases of on-stage assault, Alien Stage's judges nearly always score in favor of the victim. Till plays his part by finally, finally showing some shred of will to fight, trying to shove you away, but you don’t let him. You can’t. Not until you know for sure.
You catch the glint of drone cameras moving in for close-ups. Good. You release Till and wrap your hands around his neck, squeezing enough for the threat to look real, but not enough to do any real damage. The faint spark you’d seen earlier fades and Till goes slack in your grip, accepting his fate.
…Ah, he’s so stupid. It’s too late for him now.
You pull Till towards you, using the motion to hide the way your eyes flick up and behind him at the screen sprawling above you. The final scores are being calculated:
{Till: 89} {Ivan: 70}
A feeling surges through you like a crashing wave. He’s safe. Now to seal the deal.
In the books you’ve read, kisses were also gestures of greeting and parting. One last brush of your lips against his, as soft as you know how to be, and then your fingers dig into his neck, holding his limp body away from you. After all, the round doesn’t end until the loser has been killed.
As the guards charge onto the stage, Till’s eyes slide shut. You wish they would open; that he’d look at you one last time, even if it was with hatred or fear. Something. Anything.
When the first bullet slices into your side, you don’t waver. Your eyes don’t leave his face and your hands don’t leave his neck. You need to play your role until the bitter end, so there’s no way your guardian can question the results or demand a rematch. You need Till to survive more than you want to live. You lose track of how many times they shoot you, each staccato burst of pain bleeding into the next, holding on until the copper taste of blood fills your mouth and your fingers go limp.
It’s only then, as you fall to the ground, that Till opens his eyes. This is the last thing you’ll ever see; that terrible, wounded expression on his face. How wonderful. After all, you’ve never wanted to look at anything more than you always want to look at Till. And for this one brief moment, the Till you’re looking at is a Till who’s looking back at you.
Your second-to-last thought is that you’re glad it worked, you’re so glad he’s alive.
Your last thought is that this way, you won’t have to watch him die.
*
Note: Vision does not include the flashbacks in the MV.
*
The segyein—a rotund being with a hooked beak and fashionably dyed feathers—puts the finishing touches to your stage make-up. You don’t understand all of their chirping vocalizations, but you understand enough to get the gist: they’re cooing about how well-behaved you are, what a good pet you’re being; they’re rooting for you, honey.
Your face flexes in a meaningless smile. You cheerily thank them for their support as you’re released from the make-up chair. The segyein titters, pleased.
Another segyein, one of the many tall, slender, purple-furred beings employed by your guardian (owner) turns their wide, toothy grin at you. You follow them to the green room. Like an arrow finds a heart, your gaze finds the only other person worth anything in the room: a dark-clad figure slouched at the end of the couch next to you, gray hair hanging in his eyes.
Till. Till. Till.
You ignore the purple-furred arm pointing you to a couch across the room and take a seat at the other end of the couch from Till. You compose yourself to wait until the performance (your last performance) begins. Your gaze never leaves Till’s profile. Even broken like this, torn asunder by love, he is still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
Time passes. You answer questions from your handler, the guards, and the backstage staff on auto-pilot, smiling cheer never faltering. You warm up your voice as if you really mean to win this match. Till glances at you, once or twice, then looks away. Something in your chest aches when you see the empty look in his teal eyes.
It’s not right. Till is a fighter. If he won’t fight you—
…Well. There’s only ever been one outcome you'll accept for this match.
Time stops passing. The two of you are hurried out of the green room and pulled apart to opposite wings. You wait at your mark, out of the audience’s sight. The lights go on, revealing Till standing alone on the spare, empty stage. Everything that isn’t Till recedes into the darkness as his raw, aching voice soars into the still air.
You drink in every note, every phrase; you roll the taste of his pain and misery around your tongue like a starving man with his last morsel of food. You’d like to crack open his skull to observe the turbulence channeled into his voice up close; you want to sink your teeth into the pale curve of his throat and feel the vibration of every note against your lips. You want him to be anywhere but here, somewhere warm and safe and free, but of all the things you want, that has always been the most impossible.
Till’s voice fades, signaling the end of the first verse. You make your entrance, stepping into the stage lights and up to your mic. The second verse is yours, and as you sing, memories flicker through your mind, a lifetime of miserable longing. Even now, you’re still so greedy, so desperate to mean something to him. To be something worth fighting, if not fighting for. But you already know that you’ll never mean that much to him.
Artificial rain pours down on the two of you as the third verse starts. You’re supposed to trade lines here, but halfway through the verse, your call is met with no response. When you look across the stage, Till stands there at his mic, silent, waiting out the end of the song.
Too bad. You have no intention of letting him throw this match.
Your mic hits the ground with a final snarl of feedback. You barely feel the cold as you cross the stage, heart pounding. When Till turns to you, you grab his face and force your mouths together. His lips are cold against yours, slack with surprise, and you take advantage of that to press deeper into his mouth.
In the books you’ve read, the old human classics that have survived, kisses were expressions of love. Passion. Desire. What is happening now between the two of you is none of that. It’s your very simple plan to save Till’s life: in cases of on-stage assault, Alien Stage's judges nearly always score in favor of the victim. Till plays his part by finally, finally showing some shred of will to fight, trying to shove you away, but you don’t let him. You can’t. Not until you know for sure.
You catch the glint of drone cameras moving in for close-ups. Good. You release Till and wrap your hands around his neck, squeezing enough for the threat to look real, but not enough to do any real damage. The faint spark you’d seen earlier fades and Till goes slack in your grip, accepting his fate.
…Ah, he’s so stupid. It’s too late for him now.
You pull Till towards you, using the motion to hide the way your eyes flick up and behind him at the screen sprawling above you. The final scores are being calculated:
A feeling surges through you like a crashing wave. He’s safe. Now to seal the deal.
In the books you’ve read, kisses were also gestures of greeting and parting. One last brush of your lips against his, as soft as you know how to be, and then your fingers dig into his neck, holding his limp body away from you. After all, the round doesn’t end until the loser has been killed.
As the guards charge onto the stage, Till’s eyes slide shut. You wish they would open; that he’d look at you one last time, even if it was with hatred or fear. Something. Anything.
When the first bullet slices into your side, you don’t waver. Your eyes don’t leave his face and your hands don’t leave his neck. You need to play your role until the bitter end, so there’s no way your guardian can question the results or demand a rematch. You need Till to survive more than you want to live. You lose track of how many times they shoot you, each staccato burst of pain bleeding into the next, holding on until the copper taste of blood fills your mouth and your fingers go limp.
It’s only then, as you fall to the ground, that Till opens his eyes. This is the last thing you’ll ever see; that terrible, wounded expression on his face. How wonderful. After all, you’ve never wanted to look at anything more than you always want to look at Till. And for this one brief moment, the Till you’re looking at is a Till who’s looking back at you.
Your second-to-last thought is that you’re glad it worked, you’re so glad he’s alive.
Your last thought is that this way, you won’t have to watch him die.
*
Note: Vision does not include the flashbacks in the MV.
