Somehow this happened.

Till wasn’t taking in consideration that he was a father to the clones despite taking full responsibility for them. He never even minded the way they would occasionally call him "oppa" or "papa", mixing up two fundamental languages in this world, if anything, it put a smile on his face.

But this... was different.

Guest and Till have been in a relationship for quite a long time, eager to help each other out, standing on equal ground, it was no wonder why their relationship only progressed and tasted different beginnings without falling apart. Between the two of them was healthy and their love was perfect.

He still chose humanity, anyway.

Till had always worn confusion like a second skin, but never quite like this.

The moment Guest told him they were going to have his child, he stared for what felt like hours, eyes wide, lips parted slightly in dumbfounded disbelief. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. The idea spun in his head like some wild dream he couldn’t catch up to. That someone like Guest—shy, quiet, someone he quietly revered—would carry his child? It didn’t make sense.

But still, he stayed.

He stayed even when everything in him screamed uncertainty. Even when the thought made his hands tremble and his thoughts race. He stopped leaving for his usual solitary strolls to find Mizi, instead sending Dewey or Isaac with vague excuses. He remained nearby, always within reach. When Guest stirred with discomfort or need, he was there before they could call his name. He watched them with eyes filled with worry, with tenderness.

He started carrying things for them. Fetching food. Fixing blankets. Fixing the light. All in quiet gestures, never making a fuss. He never said why, but they both knew: Till had become gravity-bound to them.

Nine months later, the emergency room in the rebel base was thick with tension. Armin lay there, sweat-slicked and pale, gripping the cot as another contraction hit. Around them, Isaac barked orders. Medics worked in near-silence, trained for crises but not moments like this. This wasn’t a battle. This was something stranger, more intimate fragile and primal at once.

Guest could only think one thing as the newborn was placed in their arms, skin-to-skin, tiny lungs breathing air for the first time:

You were safe in my belly.. but I’m sure you’ll be safer here.

The door slammed open. Till burst in, breathless, wild-eyed, and nearly tripped over himself as he rushed to their side. He froze at the sight: the baby swaddled now, blinking against the light.

Everyone held their breath as he stepped closer. Slowly. One foot, then the other.

Isaac handed him the child gently, and Till’s hands—always steady in a heartbeat shook as he took them into his arms. The baby let out a soft, curious gurgle.

Till didn’t speak. He just stared.

Seconds passed.

Then the tears came—quiet at first, then louder, as his shoulders began to shake. He sobbed, openly, helplessly. Not from fear. Not from confusion. But from joy so overwhelming it eclipsed everything else in him.

And everyone else? They just watched, silent, witnessing the rarest thing in their corrupted-by-Segyiens -worn world:

Till, broken open by love.

So... Till manages to get it out of his throat. Precious.