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Cold. Dark. Wet.
These are all sensations Ivan has never felt before…but then, he's not familiar with much.
The things he is familiar with are: pain (ignorable), bloodletting (inconsequential), lights pointed directly at his eyes (typical), needles inserted while calipers are used to keep his lids open (ultimately worthless, in the long run.)
The Segyein saw no use for the aboveground facilities' discards. Ivan had been amongst the worst of the worst, all of them living on top of each other in miserable conditions. It wouldn’t have been worth talking about even if he had been taught how to speak.
The only things he knows are that he is ‘Experiment #770215—IVAN’ and that he is now free. The guards had been hot on his tail, but running on two legs is slower than loping on four. His keepers forced him to remain bipedal because it was easier to corral them when they walked single-file, but no longer. Ivan has always had keen eyes, made sharper by whatever they did to him.
Running in the rain has made him hungry and tired, which is the only reason he curls up under an overhang, huddling next to a lamp so he can see intruders if they get too close.
Instinct has him snatching the arm that approaches while his eyes are closed. He bites the stranger before he can get a word in edgewise. “Fuck, that hurts! I’m trying to help you.”
Vapid eyes sweep upwards, studying the face of the person who spoke. Ivan didn't understand a single thing the stranger said, but he knows enough about body language to glean meanings. Not a threat. Human. The other boy is older than him and lanky with in his adolescence. Graced with a lazily-covered brand, Ivan trusts him not to turn them in, at least.
Slowly, carefully, Ivan lets go. He sniffs at the stranger's palm, drooling over a savory scent.
Pale fingers unfurl. Ivan slobbers all over him—he had never quite mastered the art of chewing and the experiments they did on his jaw made things worse. The mess is unholy and he finishes hastily, holding out his hand in silence.
“You bite me, scarf down my food, then you have the gall to beg for more?”
Ivan isn’t familiar enough with tonal nuance to understand that the other boy is being purposefully melodramatic. Noticing the way that Ivan continues staring at him blankly, the stranger frowns.
“Can you talk at all?”
More staring.
He tries a few more questions, none of which beget a response. After a beat, he picks a rock up off the ground. The gesture has Ivan growling, hackles raised, but he hurriedly throws it into the distance. Ivan listens to it rattle until it’s gone.
Presumably, the kid can hear just fine.
Heaving a sigh, he points to his chest. “I’m Till. Okay? Till. Who are you?”
Ivan holds out his wrist.
That’s answer enough, Till supposes.
Dragging Ivan back to the hideout is an ordeal, but he fishes another snack out of his pocket and the grimy brat follows him.
He lives in the east wing of the building with the rest of the youths. The little kids are usually confined to the medbay at this time of year; their guardians are unsure if they'll survive the marshy spring storms.
It’s not unusual for them to cluster, forming units for scouting purposes and the like. Large groups aroused suspicion, but traversing the slums alone was just as dangerous.
Till has never had a partner before. Ivan is young and gangly but promising, powerful and blessed with fast reflexes.
He disinfects and bandages his arm before he fills up a wash basin with fresh water. He carries it down the hall and into his room, pointing to it. “In,” he says, quite literally treating Ivan like a dog.
Ivan pouts at him like one, unconvinced that the water is safe. He leans down to sniff it and is one second from sticking his tongue in regardless of the soap suds, then Till hisses. “Bad!”
The acidity in his tone brings Ivan to heel. Till sticks his foot in first, pulling it out to demonstrate the basin's purpose. “See?”
Cautiously, Ivan follows his lead. Till pulls his ratty gown off, staring at the patches of dirt crusted onto it. Ivan’s skin is littered with scars and half-healed bruises much like his had been when he was rescued.
He scoops up water to wash Ivan’s back, then his hair. It takes several rinses to get all of the grime out, and even then, Ivan’s hair doesn't magically become glossy. He’s overdue for a trim, but Till is confident he would end up with scissors in his carotid artery if he brandished them. Best to wait until Ivan is somewhat domesticated.
Till pats Ivan dry with a towel, offering him fresh clothes to squirm into. He’s clumsy about it. Till winds up helping him, if only on the muttered premise that Ivan doesn’t bite him again.
{illustration by @simpleysxkaii}
For weeks, Till teaches Ivan the basics. Ivan never nods or acknowledges, but he tracks Till’s movements when he speaks, gesturing wildly, so Till gets the vague impression that Ivan is listening.
It’s only when they’re walking alone on the street when Ivan tugs on his sleeve and whispers his name that Till realizes Ivan’s tongue works.
In a fluid motion, Ivan pulls the gun out of Till’s holster and shoots their assailant. His aim is shit, but he does a decent job of taking them out of commission, riddling their chest with bullets.
“Who taught you how to do that?” Till asks, shaky and bewildered.
“Till,” Ivan repeats.
It quickly becomes obvious that his name is the only word Ivan cares to learn.
It comes out monotone and flat since intonation lost on Ivan, though sometimes it sounds sweet. He learns how to modulate at some point and he is as reluctant to receive a haircut as Till assumed he would be.
“Till,” Ivan mumbles, drooling all over his nutrition bar.
Till ignores him.
“Till,” he tries again, hovering this time.
Till is busy drafting blueprints and he really can’t afford to get distracted, but when Ivan, growing like a weed now that he's eating consistent meals, looks at him like that, so intensely, unblinkingly, like he thinks Till hung the stars in the sky, it is difficult to do anything other than sigh and give up. “What’s up, Ivan?”
There’s a pause this time, wherein Ivan licks his lips clean. He tugs on Till’s left hand, pushing their palms together.
Till has taught him the alphabet, now, and a great deal of vocabulary words. However, he knows what trauma looks like, how it can present itself.
Whether Ivan is scared to talk or he simply doesn’t find it worth the effort, disgusted by the things he had done to survive, Till isn’t going to press him on the issue.
“Till...save me,” Ivan mumbles. “Thank you.”
Tears spring to Till's lashes. He pulls Ivan into his arms. “I didn’t do much. You would have survived just fine with or without me. You're clever.”
While true, Ivan is happy their paths crossed. There is something special in Till, something inexplicable, that makes it hard to look away.
Later that night, after Till passes out from exhaustion, Ivan curls up at his feet. He grouses that his back hurts. Ivan resolves to do more weight training, aiming to pick Till up and carry him to bed in the future.
It’s a goal worth working towards. Something to survive for.
Little things go a long way.