ʀᴀᴘ * / 𝖌𝖆𝖒𝖊

“kind of?” they smile a bit awkwardly, shaking their head to his first question. it’s flattery that colors their tone next, joining the familiarity of talking about a well-loved topic. “i suppose to be a professional you have to be making some money off of it, right? my profit margins are a bit too slim to earn me that title but i’d like to get there, someday?” they feel like a child on career day, talking about how they’d like to be a star but, still, some of the fire that drives their songs keeps them from shying away from the topic. “the practice of learning an instrument is still a good one. it gives you an appreciation for the art, even if it wasn’t that which was meant for you. plus, it helps with test scores or something.” the last bit is thrown in as a joke, though they aren’t sure how comically it will land. “ah,” some of their social ineptitude creeps back now, hand lifting to rub the back of their neck out of habit. “i suppose i have. i don’t think he knows who i am, though. we don’t run in the same circles.” that is to say, babylon and his music career are everything indie’s still fighting tooth and nail to achieve for themself.  

there’s a social convention at play here that simply isn’t indigo’s specialty. saint wants to talk and they’ve opened themself up to it. continuing that conversation beyond a few muted responses is where things get difficult. “i’m sorry for that,” indie does their best at sympathy, the irony of being the MIA sleeping partner for ares not lost on them. “i wish you luck with your, uh, annoyingly sexy person.” indigo’s nose scrunches at the prompt. it feels like bait and would ordinarily serve as a cue for them to start to make their retreat. however, isolation doesn’t fare well for reality tv and indie’s intended promotional ploy. they opt to nibble instead. “i feel like you’re going to tell me either way. might as well hear it.” they mentally brace for the worst. not that saint is particularly rude -- more like too honest to a fault. some say that’s indie’s own vice.

they’re being called out in their half-lie. while they’ve definitely gotten work done in the endless hours they’ve been awake, it’d be really difficult to describe it as purposeful work. certainly not driven by some inspirational spark born of a dream like they’ve described. the company isn’t unwelcome as he joins them on the couch. if anything, indie’s grasp on reality feels strengthened now that there’s life in the room besides their own haunting of it. fingertips tap an eclectic beat on the front of the closed notebook. they’re good with words. surely, that translates to an ability to be just vague enough to spin a fib into the truth. “glad,” they nod with a quick, pleasant smile. “i make music,” they follow up in answer. “thought a change of scenery might make for some artistic fuel and so far, so good.” that part isn’t a lie, at least. even if they come away with nothing else, at least they’ll have a few new tracks under their proverbial belt. just nothing of what they’d written last night, that’s for certain.

“you just described reality television,” indie retorts. it’s not that they don’t agree -- they’re questioning their own decision to push themself this far out of their comfort zone to partake in such an endeavor. “i take it you aren’t content with your pairing then?” it’d be a nice opportunity to commiserate, to vent about their own frustrations with the act of coupling off strangers all because they look promising or whatnot. however, too preoccupied with their tenuous place at the villa in the first place, indigo refrains from filing their own complaint alongside saint’s. “that’s the audience’s fault, though. they watch all of this like a kid in front of an ant farm and the only power we give them is to shake it.”

the innocent enough question holds a clue for indigo. despite the weightiness of their eyelids and the ever-present urge to yawn, they clearly don’t look like they’ve pulled an all-nighter, which is nice, they suppose. it feels a little too much like complaining to shatter the illusion and so they offer a white lie instead. “yeah, something like that,” indie shrugs, closing the notebook that’s gone untouched for the better part of the last half an hour anyways. “got struck by inspiration and had to jot it down before i forgot,” they elaborate with a nod towards it. sensing some of their own typical nervousness in the other, somehow, makes indie less so. “no worries -- i, uh, presume you slept well?” he looks like he did, anyways.

it’s their worst nightmare about the show and its ‘arrangements’ come to fruition. being paired with either of the names they’d had in mind for the coupling would have been hard enough for indie but sharing a bed with a complete stranger is downright terrifying. they are sure ares is fine enough company and probably not evil but, still. still! it’s easy enough to avoid going to bed that first night, staying up into the early hours in the lounge scribbling away in their notebook. exhaustion is hitting though and it’s with a yawn and a bleary blink that they realize they’re not alone in the room anymore. “how long have you been here?” they ask quietly, tucking legs closer to their chest from their perch in the corner of the couch. bare toes curl into the cushion self consciously. “sorry -- i mean, good morning?”

it’s both a blessing and a curse that babylon doesn’t seem to recognize them. on one hand, it’d be awkward. explaining to someone whose music you respect that they were kind of the reason you were here -- not in a romantic way, but in terms of relevance -- seems like more hassle than it was worth. but on the other hand, it made the brief social media interaction feel as hollow as, perhaps, it should’ve felt from the start. all baby did was retweet their cover. it had already been going viral so him posting a link simply tipped it over an edge. the fact it means so much more to indigo is dangerous to project onto babylon. they resign to keeping the interaction vague, impersonal. it’s still cool to be around the musician who wrote the very same track he sampled so heavily. “would pre-season one babylon believe that you won?” they query with a quick smile. the singular thing they knew about the first season of the show was its end result. babylon being back for a second is news to them; maybe they should branch outside of the soundcloud / underground rap scenes online every once in a while. “i’ve only ever shared a bed with my siblings before and even that wasn’t done willingly.” they half laugh, flickers of memories of smaller family members clambering into their room during a storm flashing to mind. “i don’t -- i mean, well, platonic would be best for me to start.” their head bows back, following suit. it’s more formal a greeting than the la resident usually encounters but they like it. “well baby, i’m indigo. or indie, if you’d like? i don’t tend to, ah, get nicknamed by others so i like to offer it myself.” it’s because you’ve got the social warmth of an ice storm, their brain helpfully supplies in self-sabotage. 

indigo’s gaze drops to basher’s fingertips, the movement catching their eye and easier to focus upon than his face. they can’t help the way their brows raise both at the continued acquiesce to their request and at the response they’re given. “you’ve only kissed two people?” they blink in an attempt to understand. the insistence of basher joking, however, makes the seriousness they’ve applied to his answer feel foolish. “ah,” indie finally allows with an awkward scratch to the back of their neck. “got it.” they risk looking up again to find basher looking away. that allows them to keep their focus on him, anyways. “i’m a rapper,” they answer with more confidence than they’ve had maybe the entire conversation. “nothing you’ve probably heard but -- i go by blue. i’ve, uh, got some music out there.” finally, the promotion they’ve been trying for since stepping foot in the villa.

their lips purse, unsure what to make of the direction their conversation has taken. this is why they avoid socializing -- it eliminates practically all chances of happening upon awkward topics such as how likely the two of them are to fall in love. only someone from la would speak of dating so casually. only an actor would toss around their kissing prowess like it’s a badge of honor. “how do you know?” they fire back indignantly, a pink settling upon their cheeks they have no ability to control. “or, uh, how are you so sure? is that something you acting sorts put in your resumé? surely, i’ll need to contact your references.” how they got on this subject is now beyond indie -- it seems especially cruel, considering their firmly never-been-kissed status. they hope they’re talking enough shit so as not to expose that fact.

it’s difficult for them not to come across as bitter. thinking about their parents -- talking about family -- tended to be a sore spot for indie. it wasn’t that their immediate family had ever done them wrong; there simply wasn’t enough time for indigo. they were just the middle child and, as such, wholly forgettable. indie doesn’t feel the same capacity for sentiment, as a result. half expecting taeyang not to return, their brows lift upon his reentry. he seems to be picking up the conversation right where he left off. “is that why you’re on the show now?” they query with a confused lilt. “to be a star?” head cants as they follow tae with their gaze. “the sun is already bright enough, no?”

“there are plenty of interesting people here.” it’s not exactly answering the question but it’s not a lie either. they don’t say it like a compliment.

now is definitely the chance to promote their mixtape. they’ve practically been asked about it! it’s a large reason they’re on the show – the money would make such a huge impact and it’s not like the audience couldn’t guess as much. and yet, they clam up. coming across as a desperate money-grabber isn’t the way to win love island, surely.  “representation,” it’s a half-truth, anyways. “i’m here to represent the common person, to get a voice out there that isn’t white and rich and cis. i was approached specifically, otherwise i wouldn’t have sent my application in but – yeah, i thought it was the right opportunity for me. and for my career, i guess.” they fiddle with their fingers, set in their lap. “i don’t hate it here. i really don’t.” please don’t vote me off, in other words.

“it’s hard to pinpoint specific annoyances; it’s everything, i think,” they recognize that it sounds vague and maybe largely insulting so they try to continue. “but it’s more a problem with me than with them? socializing is just – a lot sometimes. it’s hard and so anyone doing it ‘too much’ inherently annoys me. doesn’t mean they’re annoying though. wealth annoys me but that’s a product of capitalism which goes beyond simple annoyance.” now would be an excellent chance to plug their mixtape; feeling shy, they move onto the next question instead. “i find confidence intriguing. bluntness, forwardness. anyone possessing the traits i lack is… a source of curiosity to say the least. i don’t know that it’s a good thing.” 

“yes. plenty.” they don’t elaborate – they weren’t asked to.

“i don’t… hate it. free food is nice. the weather’s okay. a change of scenery has been good for my songwriting. i’m just hoping the ‘reality tv show’ part of it gets easier.”