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[ Ivan would not have described himself as close to Sunny. He'd been a constant source of fear in Sunny's life. While he'd tried to remedy that, each attempt had only seemed to worsen his standing. Regardless, he'd felt that sensation, too. The one that signaled the exact moment their smallest companion's existence ceased.

Worse, he may know the cause. The knowledge curls around him like a serpent as he sits among the soft things that have been placed there for him, uncharacteristically declining to speak up first.

Instead, he looks to Till. ]

Edited 2025-12-14 04:48 (UTC)

[Till isn’t facing the others. He can't. If he turns around, they'll see the stupid tears burning at the corners of his eyes, the ones that keep welling up every time the loss hits him again. The memory of the tether snapping whiplashes through his mind. It feels like it's still echoing in his skill, that moment of loss, over and over again.

He’s so damn tired of loss. Of things being there one heartbeat and gone the next. Of always being the one left standing in the wreckage.

One moment, Sunny’s presence was there, soft and familiar, a quiet weight lingering in the back of his mind—and in the next… he was gone. The space where he should be is just empty. Just like Lortel. Another torn-out thread. Another name he can’t say without his chest hurting. He hates it. He hates this. He hates that there’s never anything he can do.

His throat is so tight it aches. He tugs his hood down over his head like it's armor and hides there, scrubbing the back of his hand hard across his eyes before any more tears can fall. He turns even further away, shoulders hunching in.

Mm.

[It isn’t even a proper answer—just a noise, thin and rough—but it’s all he can force out without his voice cracking open. Anything more, and they'll hear how emotional he is and how the simple act of being asked is enough to get him all choked up again.]

[ it's so familiar, it aches. right down to the bones of him. how many times has it been? when joran died and all of them hunched around each other in their threadbare cloaks protecting them from the cold. when mwamba died, so close to his homecoming, tossed aside. a husk of a body. ethel, crys, cammuravi.

mio. lortel.

at the very least, noah doesn't think sunny has passed on. the connection is severed, but that could mean anything. perhaps he chose to leave the dream. perhaps the shutters pulled back and he found the voice to leave. noah doesn't know if that's the truth, but he could believe it. he pokes the fire, stoking it to a steady warmth. watches the flames rise. if this were a homecoming, he'd know what to do. or even just the abrupt loss of a soldier in a colony. there were . . . rituals. moments. even when time was carved out of them, each other, they still found ways to make time for those gone on before them.

he had come to that conclusion recently, hadn't he? saheon told him to let it go. but. he couldn't. and maybe some of it he will have to sunder. but not all of it.

so noah grabs some blankets. settles one on till's shoulders, smoothing it out and one for ivan as well. tucks them in a little. then he takes his place once more, crossing his legs. ]

When I first met Sunny, he found me a piccolo. I was missing my flute and he offered me that. I didn't play on it very well, but the thought was kind.

He was scared of me, a lot. Because of what I had done. And seen. I never really knew how to fight fear.

[ everyone gets scared. but noah . . . his fear was different. ]

I think he was getting there . . . with the two of you. Your connection with him was strong.

[ The familiar sight of Till's back looms large in Ivan's thoughts, along the familiar feeling of being unable to reach him. He doesn't feel as though he has the right to comfort him even he could. When the blankets falls over his shoulders while he's watching, courtesy of Noah, he's silently grateful that someone else is here to attempt it.

Till doesn't deserve any more sadness in his life. He wills the fabric to warm him some while wanting to do so himself—to simply fill that role with his own body draped around him instead. Though he's just a few inches away, it's a distance he can't close. Not with the image he holds of Sunny terrified, scrabbling, small fingers stabbing at his eyes just to get away from him. He doesn't remember much after that.

The mind's cold logic fills in that blank with the child limping off somewhere, bleeding from injuries inflicted by a monster he never had any chance of stopping.

The one pretending to be his roommate. ]

[ ... ]

[ Like a good listener, Ivan unburies his eyes from the blankets to meet with Noah's while the soldier pays respects to Sunny's memory. The sweetness of it is lost in the other thoughts running rampant through his head. Still, he understands the sentiment he's been invited to take part in. His first interaction with the boy was very similar. ]

Sunny... showed me what a "polaroid" was, a type of old camera from his time. It would print a photo onto a little square right after you pressed the button. I tried taking one of him, but he dodged out of the way like it was going to fire a laser beam... I don't think he liked the idea of having his picture taken very much, haha...

[ His half-hearted laughter trickles away as softly as the hiss of a falling cinder. ]

When we were all done, we went off together without saying a single thing, searching for an end to the dream. That was my first "conversation" with our Sunny... and maybe the only one I should describe. You all know he was afraid of me, too.

[He does, at least, accept the blanket, drawing it properly around his shoulders. Getting emotional like this… it feels childish, maybe. But he doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to react to pain. He’s carried so much for so long that sometimes it just spills over.

Sunny had been afraid of everyone. Till still wonders what must have happened to him before he came here, to leave him so skittish, so tightly wound. Ironically, he doesn’t think he ranked all that high on the boy’s list of fears. Sunny had seemed shy, a little nervous when they first met—but not terrified. Maybe it was because, for the longest time, Till could only speak through a notebook and pencil. Maybe that made him less intimidating to a child who never spoke at all.]

…He liked art. I let him go through my sketchbooks, and he seemed to enjoy it. I liked watching him work, too.

[The words come quietly, his voice still edged with feeling.]

—Tch… out of all of you, I think I’d normally be the scariest one. I’m not really good at knowing what to say. Or at comforting someone.

[He doesn’t believe he is, anyway.]

Since neither of us could talk, it probably helped, in its own way.

[ hm. everyone has their own perceptions. noah has a little more, like sunny leaving him to die, but that can remain with him. he doesn't need to share that fact. ]

Maybe we shouldn't fixate on that.

Because in the end . . . he chose us.

[ They've didn't have ceremonies for a fellow pet once they were gone. It was just onto the next round, their only job being to prepare for it. It wasn't "goodbye" to each other before stepping on stage, even if that was the thought that sat in their hearts, it was "let's do our best!"

The only time he can recall saying something like goodbye so plainly was at graduation. Ivan perks a little at this idea. It might require more explanation to Noah, but Till will know what he's talking about. ]

Should we write some things down for him—our words to Sunny that we'd want him to hear? [ A glance to Till; perhaps he'll hear Ivan shift, even if he can't see it. ] Like the signing boards we had in the last days of class.

[ They can express their best thoughts to turn the evening bright. And keep the worst to themselves. ]

[Oh- their graduation messages.

. . . Thinking back on it, Till regrets how very stupid his one had been to Ivan. He hadn't known what to say. And anything like a goodbye had felt like something he didn't really want to face at the time.

The idea of doing this for Sunny isn't a bad idea. Ivan seems excited at the prospect. Wiping another hand across his eyes, he turns around to face the others at least. Evidence of his tears is clear in the redness of his face and the puffiness of his eyes, even if he's wiped them clean.]

I like that. If Sunny returns, I bet he'd love it.

[ it's not an offseeing, but noah immediately understands. after all, the city had a similar tradition. names of the lost, etched on stone. when the city people die, they don't even leave a husk behind. they vanish into the either, gone forever.

he smiles faintly. ]

Then that's what we'll do.

[ It would seem as though everyone's aboard! ]

All right, we need a surface large enough for all of us to write, I'd say... a paragraph? Not paper. Something more permanent. Do we have anything like that?

What about his room? We could always do it in the room or in one of the halls. Somewhere on the building walls would be fine.

[ writing . . . noah isn't great at it, but he should be able to manage. he hopes. ]

His room should be fine. That way, we can always go and check it.

[ That may be a bit odd should anyone else be in need of the room one day. But then again they have plenty of beds. And whatever's written will most likely be fairly innocuous. ]

Noah, let's head over. Will you gather us some supplies, Till?

Yeah... just leave that to me.

[He’s the one with everything sprawled out in his little makeshift art studio. It doesn’t take him long to gather supplies once he slips away. His footsteps sound out on the stairs as he climbs, and he ducks under a small moth that flutters past before he appears outside Sunny’s room, arms full.]

Might as well have some choices.

[ noah looks them over curiously. memorials are not something the colonies. there's no time. no place. they're always on the move. when someone goes, their flame snuffed out, the bodies are just husks. scattered around aionios.

there were so many moments when the ouroboros would find a body. tucked away by the waterfall. out by the desert. close to a cliff. bleeding red motes of life. burned away. he'd play his flute, changing the colour. hoping it meant something.

but what it meant was . . .

he switches gears. ]

What is it supposed to look like?

I dunno... we've never really done something like this before.

[Sure, Till has made a number of art pieces in the past, but it was never specifically to honor one person. In the end, anything larger than something in his notebook was to express his feelings and wishes in general. He isn't sure that it could be considered anything special other than to him.]

That's also why I don't think there's a "wrong" way to go about this, though. Whatever we do, Sunny would be happy, right?

[ Oh, that's a much better answer, probably. The way Ivan articulated the question, he was about to offer a literal description — Aim to write at least four lines! Make sure your handwriting is neat! Etcetera.

Inspecting the items, Ivan selects a simple black brush pen. ]

Till is right. [ A pop as he uncaps it! ] Just remember to sign your addition so he can see who it's from.

[ noah cocks his head, mulling it over as he does his best to envision it. ]

All right then.

[ what should he say? noah is articulate but he's never had to pen it down. writing is not a skill soldiers use much on the battlefield. he's not even good at naming things.

sunny must be alive. somewhere in the real world. so noah simply writes, we'll think of you. always. noah. and leaves it at that. ]

[Till is confident his messages are usually shit. It's not as easy to address someone directly, even through writing, as compared to writing a song or poem or something. Maybe because the recipient of those feelings is left vague.

He frowns. He'll write something... but maybe if he works on some kind of art piece first. That would make more sense coming from him. So he'll set to work on that before anything else.]

[ Within a couple swipes, it's clear what Till has decided he's going to do: what he does best; what not everyone can. It only makes sense to use that skill here.

Noah, meanwhile, has gone with something simple, direct. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, it leaves no questions.

Ivan approaches. His turn.

Sunny,
I'm remembering too late that words aren't the only language.
I'd have liked to teach you one we could both speak.

He begins to transcribe notes then, that if played would translate into a bright melody.

Like the boy's namesake.

I hope you're dreaming pleasantly.
— Ivan ]

[ noah sees the notes and without thinking, he reaches for his flute.

he begins to play. and the motes, they appear. little comforting balls of light, rising from sunny's memorial. their feelings, reaching into the sky. ]

[Till's work takes a little time as he paints. It is not meant to be anything extravagant, but something simple and gentle—a sunflower haloed by the sun. Till has never seen sunflowers in person before, only in books. Yet as an artist, there was a time when he pored over different flowers and their meanings.

If he remembers correctly, the sunflower was meant to signify happiness, among other things. It is what he wishes for him now. He works in quiet concentration, the brush moving in time with the beautiful notes Noah plays, until at last he jots down a brief message of his own.

It's a little darker without you around. Sleep well.
— Till ]

[ Noah is the first to finish, followed by Ivan, leaving Till's piece last, still in the process of evolving toward completion. Colored strokes build on each other to create an image.

Ivan isn't sure exactly how Till does it, but he watches intently, mind mostly blank, riding idly on the music played by Noah while waiting for the petals to come full circle. He is immersed in a world of sounds and shape and almost nothing else during that time.

When Till finally leans away from his work, it's another few minutes before he speaks up, before he checks: ]

Does everyone feel as though they've done their part?

[ done their part. that's right. this is noah's role, isn't it?

it seems so little has changed after all. he's still here, performing these duties. ]

I think that's enough.

[ it's time to move on. ]

[While it will never feel like enough, it's all they can really do right now. Till nods. His heart aches, but at least with this, they paid him some respects until the time that they can see him again.

If they do.]

I think he'd like this.

[Which is all that matters right now.]

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