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"This is your fault," Till mutters, testing the rope binding his wrists. It does not give, the same as the last dozen times he tried, but persistence is key. He can't give up or dying in a kennel with Ivan becomes a frighteningly real possibility, and Till can't have that. Sharing coffin space with Ivan. Touching bones with Ivan. Gross. "If it weren't for your stupid guardian pissing them off, we wouldn't be here. I haven't seen Mizi in five days. Five."
"Do you miss the sweet, sugar scent of her hair?"
"What is wrong with you? Mizi's hair smells like summerfruit."
"Wow," Ivan says, genuinely impressed. "What a creepy statement."
Till snarls and flails to kick at Ivan, but it's no use. Their hands are bound together back to back, which means that Till's legs are completely out of reach from the rest of Ivan's body unless he figures out a way to dislocate his spine. Till considers it for a brief second, then he scraps the idea. Not worth it. Ivan will always be there to kick once they're released, anyway.
Well, assuming Unsha pays the ransom fee. Urak certainly won't.
"Your guardian is going to pay, right?" Till asks, hesitant.
"How much did they request again?"
"Fifteen million credits."
"Hmm," Ivan says. Not the most comforting response.
Till wiggles and pinches Ivan's finger, the sole body part within grabbable reach. "Answer the question. Yes or no? Should we start finding an escape route?"
"How do you imagine we go about this?" Ivan asks, leaning his head on Till's shoulder. Till makes the fatal mistake of glancing down, discovering Ivan's face too close. Ivan's eyelashes bat against his cheek like a thousand tiny insects. Ew. Till goes for a headbutt but Ivan gets there first, slamming their skulls together. Pain explodes in Till's forehead. His eyes water. While Till curses, Ivan goes on. "I have the vague sense that we've already left our planet's orbit. Our captors are likely heading to a neighboring galaxy to avoid pursuit. Suppose we escaped this kennel, trapped as we are, and fled the ship. We don't have the ability to survive without oxygen for thirty seconds—"
"Okay," Till says. God. This fuckass know-it-all. "Okay. I get it. Escaping is a bad idea. So, what, we stay still and hope that your guardian likes you enough to put up fifteen million credits?"
"Oh, he'll pay fifteen million for me," Ivan reassures him.
"What the hell? Say that earlier!"
"I said for me. Not you. You, I imagine, he will toss off the ship or take a finger as souvenir to send to Urak."
Till's fingers curl together. That—is an extremely nasty prospect. He likes all his fingers. More importantly, he likes his life. Till tries to gentle his tone. "Ivan. There—that's—can't you—"
"Maybe if you say please."
Till balks. "I'm not going to beg for my life."
"I wasn't done. If you say please, touch mouths with me, confess that you've been sniffing Mizi's empty shampoo bottles after every disposal period—"
"I don't do that!"
"Does it matter? You'll tell her that if you want to get out of here alive with all your fingers attached. By the way, it's one request for every finger and five requests for your life. You keep cutting me off. I've only said three things so far."
"Fuck you," Till snarls. Ivan waits. Till says, "Okay, fine, what are the rest of the requests?"
The lack of fresh oxygen must be getting to Ivan. By the time he reaches request number ten, he's gone from say please to run three laps around the whole garden while carrying me on your back.
Till is aghast. Ivan weighs one and a half Mizis. Possibly more. His shoulders have grown intimidatingly broad. The last time Till tried to give Mizi a piggyback ride, she took one look at him and suggested carrying him instead, promptly proceeding to do so with gleeful ease. Till wanted to both die and also wanted that moment to last forever. Ivan laughed so hard tears came out of his eyes.
Suffice it to say, nothing about Ivan's request sounds appealing. Till comes up with a dozen retorts but he can only manage one word: "Why?"
"It would bring me great joy," Ivan says with the utmost sincerity. Till leans over and bites Ivan's earlobe. Fleshy and cold. Ivan shudders underneath him. "Do that again," he demands.
"Wha—no!"
"Which finger do you treasure the least?"
"I hate you," Till says, staring at the dark ceiling. It's hardly a ceiling. About the width of a book away from their scalps. Kennels aren't rooms.
God. A kennel. He hasn't been in one since he was a kid. That's so fucking embarrassing. He should contemplate every mistake that brought him here. The next time Ivan gets kidnapped from his bed while Till is in the opposite bunk, Till will just close his eyes, flip over, and drown out the noises of punching and hitting and slicing.
Speaking of which.
"Did you get stabbed?" Till asks, trying to crane his head for a better look at Ivan.
It's no use. He has a stubby neck. Ivan, with his long, elegant neck perfect for modeling necklaces and high collars and the like, always makes a point of rubbing their necks together in some irritating display of physical superiority.
"Stabbed?" Ivan asks. "I don't think so."
"Dude, it's a straightforward question."
"Three syllables. I'm impressed."
"You damn jerk."
"And now we return to monosyllables."
"Whatever. Stop counting my syllables, weirdo."
"Every man needs a hobby," Ivan says, like that means anything. His voice doesn't sound any different from an hour ago; he's probably good on the stabbing front. The light must've been Till's imagination. Alien fashion accessories. Sua would know. Till grows morose at the reminder that Sua exists in this universe. Ivan takes notice immediately. "Why are you sulking?"
"How long do you think Sua's going to make fun of us for getting kidnapped?"
"She wouldn't make fun of us."
"Oh, okay."
"She would do worse."
"Oh. Okay."
"She would get us keychains with an alarm bell function for our birthdays and tell us to press the special little button if we ever felt scared, lost, or strayed too far from our chaperone." Till can see it. Patronizingly kind. Trying to stifle her laughter. Mizi would coo and call her the sweetest, most considerate and caring person in the universe. Till would then feel like shit. "Perhaps she would borrow a book with warnings about stranger danger and to not follow any alien that offers us candy. Like that one book Mizi loved as a kid."
"'Stay Away From Waffles The Wegyein,'" Till remembers.
"As expected of the walking encyclopedia," Ivan murmurs, humming. Till rubs their skulls together to release some of his murderous aggravation but Ivan just makes more pleased humming noises like he's being groomed and licked and bathed. Again: weirdo. "Why are you worried?"
"Getting petnapped is embarrassing."
"I agree."
"Right? I mean, does anyone have to know that we got petnapped?" Ivan makes more vague noises that Till generously decides to interpret as agreement. "It's embarrassing. Urak is going to lock me up and Unsha is never going to let you go outside without a patrol force again. You don't even like the one bodyguard you have, right?"
"He's touchy," Ivan says.
"Who, the guard?" Ivan nods. Till scowls. "Okay, fuck that. Ask Unsha for a replacement."
"I never saw the need."
"That guard is supposed to be serving you." Till feels an odd sense of triumph at the concept. An alien serving a pet-human. Ivan should be abusing that power and treating that piece of shit guard like the scum he is. He's got no sense of imagination. That has always been his biggest problem. The only failing score on his report card. One time, Till had to complete an assignment for him in exchange for getting his help finding his lost recorder. It was a good decision; Ivan found it in three minutes flat. Like a bloodhound. "Anyways, get rid of the guard."
Ivan doesn't reply.
"Ivan. You hear that? Kick your guard to the curb."
"If you insist."
"I do insist, thanks. And you know what else? We could just make up a story. Then no one would have to know." Ivan's weight sinks against his back. Heavy asshole. Both that and the request to do laps carrying him on Till's back—is it possible that Ivan has no idea how heavy he is? All that muscle and preening and modeling Unsha makes him do; surely, Ivan has to know. Till jams an elbow into him, annoyed. "Ivan," he says. "Get off. You're heavy."
"You always say that."
"Yeah, and I mean it every time. You're not exactly the shortest in our—" Something wet seeps into Till's pants, and he recoils, disgusted. The fury hits him a moment later. "Dude, what—did you piss yourself? Just because I said—"
He stops. The kennel doesn't smell of urine. It smells of something else.
Till whips his head around, alarmed. Ivan's eyes are closed. His breathing is shallow. Till's panic spikes.
"Ivan," Till says, loud. He struggles against his bindings, harder than he has since the moment they woke up in this damn kennel together. Ivan doesn't respond. He lied. He must've lied. It must've happened hours ago but he didn't say anything, why didn't he say anything, why didn't he let Till know he was in pain? They could've done something about it together. Till scrabbles at the ropes, feeling his nails rip clean off his fingers, barely feeling it. His voice climbs to a shriek. "Ivan. Ivan! Wake up! Ivan—"
When Ivan wakes up, Unsha's flesh-beard is tickling his cheek. He's peering down at Ivan with the unscarred eye. "Good," Unsha says, leaning back. "You're awake."
Ivan struggles to force the sentence into coherency. The semester is still ongoing. Unsha shouldn't be here. Then, he takes in the disconnected, nerveless sensation of his body. Context clues. Unsha despised slow pets. A series of memories hit him: Till, the kennel, cold nothingness. Unsha must've paid ransom.
"My classmate," Ivan rasps. Unsha's expression doesn't betray surprise, but he flicks his ring with his thumb, which is the same thing. "Did he survive?"
For a long moment, Unsha studies him, taking a seat in a chair. Ivan tries not to betray the fact that there is a weight crushing his diaphragm for every second Unsha doesn't answer. Till will have survived. He's resilient and persistent like that. On the off chance he didn't—well, Ivan was already halfway to death's door in the kennel. Finishing the job would be easy enough.
Finally, Unsha says, "Your classmate. Till."
Ivan manages a tiny swallow. "Yes."
"Are you close to him?"
"We've been in the same class since early childhood."
"Yes or no, boy."
Ivan hesitates. Are they close? In Ivan's craziest and most hopeful delusions, the answer would be yes. They do spend time together day in and day out. Recreational periods, all three meals, six classes, and the few hours before mandatory bedtime when Ivan watches him scribble on the back of his music sheets in the faint light of a distant planet. Realistically, though? "No."
Unsha nods. "I paid his fee."
"Is that so?"
"He kept my investment alive, so I ensured his survival." Ivan blinks, startled. The fact that Unsha paid ransom doesn't come as a surprise; Ivan had been mostly teasing Till when he said Unsha wouldn't pay. His guardian believed in repaying debts first and foremost, washing his hands of any connections or favors that he might owe, especially to business rivals.
Till, though. Till? Till kept him alive?
Unsha stands up and rises to his full height. The light hurts Ivan's eyes, but he maintains eye contact. Unsha gives another nod. "He broke his bone."
"Which bone?"
"Ask him yourself. He's been waiting outside." Ivan's mouth parts. What? "I didn't realize Urak trained his pets so well," Unsha says. "Recover soon. You've missed five lessons. Tutors will arrive tomorrow. Make the most of your rest."
"Yes, sir," Ivan says, dazed, then the door shuts behind him. Moments later, it slams open again. Ivan looks, closes his eyes, then looks again. He tries to process the new information of Till's swollen eyes, the cast on his arm, and the bandages wrapping around every fingertip. He looks, to put it bluntly, fantastic.
"You're such an ugly crier," Ivan says after a second. Till's face screws up like he's about to yell or cry again. Hopefully both. Ivan can get him there. "Audiences will enjoy your emotional vulnerability, but not if you're this unappealing about it."
Till is going to say he doesn't care about the audience. Ivan waits. "That's all you have to say to me?" he snarls.
Hard deviation. Ivan squints at his expression, making an educated guess.
"Are you upset with me?"
"You cannot be serious," Till says, disbelieving. He stumbles into his chair and rubs his face with a tired hand. "I'm an idiot, aren't I?"
"Why in this specific instance?"
"First of all, screw you for saying that, and second of all, what is wrong with you? I thought you were going to—" Till's face twists into a grimace. He scrubs at his face again, harder. Ivan predicts wrinkles by thirty-five, assuming Till lives that long. "Screw you. Seriously. Sua would've made fun of you for dying in a kennel for years."
"I wouldn't be alive to hear it," Ivan says, confused as to why this would be a threat.
It's the wrong thing to say. Till lunges to slap or choke or punch him, hissing as the pain hits his broken arm. Ivan frowns.
"Stop flailing. You're injured."
"I'm injured. Me," Till says, incredulous. "What are the rest of your requests?"
"Hm?"
"Fifteen of them, you said," Till snaps. "I've been worrying about it for days now. Don't tell me you forgot."
Ivan has a nebulous recollection. "No, I remember."
"You listed twelve. I'm docking one request because of my broken arm and ten missing fingernails adds up to one finger."
Ivan processes that strange piece of logic, then he says, "How did you pass arithmetic?"
"Two more requests," Till says, ignoring him. "List them. I'll wait here until you do."
"Implying you really will do the other twelve?"
"I'm not doing the Mizi shampoo bottle confession because it's not true."
"That's the most important one. I deserve five more requests if you're going to change the terms at your own will like this."
"Two. You get two, jerk, so hurry up and pick them so I can leave."
Ivan considers it. This is too finite a number. Two thousand would've been reasonable. The first one is easy. "Your sketchbook," Ivan says. "I want to see what's in it."
"Huh? You always see it."
"Not properly," Ivan says. He only gets snatches over Till's shoulder when Till is too concentrated to notice his presence, and once Till does notice, he tends to tell Ivan to go away and stop looming. Ivan has always wanted the chance to look through Till's art at his own leisure. Appreciate every page. The sense of incredible artistry and emotion that Till pours into each of his works.
Till's frowning. "That's it?"
"I have one more request."
"Uh, okay. What?"
Now Ivan has to choose between touching the ridges of Till's soft palate, or inserting his finger into Till's belly button. The belly button, maybe. Till has a strange little knot of flesh in the hole that fascinates Ivan to no end, which Till also finds an odd point of insecurity. Ivan can't fathom it. That belly button alone would earn hundreds of votes on the stage if Till was willing to expose it. He can be so cowardly about the strangest things.
"Your belly button," Ivan says. "Let me put my finger in it."
Till takes a deep breath. Opens and closes his mouth. Squeezes his eyes shut. Ivan generously gives him the time to resign himself to his fate. "When?" Till asks.
"After I recover. You'll know when it happens. Are you actually going to touch mouths with me?"
The mouth in question curls. "You're going to stay still when I do. You're not allowed to—elongate it, or whatever. You get one mouth touch." Till's ears are red. So is his face, and the nape of his neck, and even the top of his collarbones, peeking under his shirt. Hospital clothes are fetching on him. "One, you hear me?"
"Great," Ivan says, already dreaming of the day. Somewhere warm, well-lit. A private space for the two of them.