#ic!

in his defense, till planned to text ivan that he was coming back soon. he just forgot thanks to some asshole on the street nearly killing him with their car. he opens his mouth upon locking the door behind him, ready to bitch about his shitty morning, when a sound floats through the air and stops his mind in its tracks.

singing? ivan singing?

it sounds like it's coming from the makeshift studio they built from the apartment's closet-sized third bedroom. it makes a pretty good isolation space if you turn the lights off and curl up against the desk. till stuck some glow-in-the-dark stars onto the tiny room's ceiling a while ago, hoping to surprise ivan if he ever shut himself in there.

but he's not just isolating. he's vocalizing. till can't remember hearing these lyrics before — a new composition? normally, ivan manages the band's press and marketing while till produces the music. as far as he knows, ivan never really seemed interested in making his own. but this is good. really good. he's got a talent for it, clearly.

till nearly jumps out of his body at the sudden words. he didn't hear the agency boss come up behind his chair, too busy zoning out in his own dream-world while the makeup artist expertly covers up a dark, mottled bruise near till's jutting collarbone. the placement — arced around the top of his shoulder in the shape of a gripping hand — makes them difficult to cover up with clothing, as his outfit for the shoot exposes quite a bit of skin. it's not the only one that needed to be concealed, either. but the artist assured him gently that any remaining darkness could be easily edited out later. yippee.

the boss's presence seems to have been a silent cue for till's artist to skitter off. it's considerate in a way, but till doesn't particularly care who hears or doesn't hear. most who know anything about him and his father are aware that they don't get along, that the household is rough, but urak makes sure much of the blame falls on till being a former violent delinquent who requires constant supervision to keep him in line. never mind the fact that he's a full-fledged adult in his twenties — urak being his manager as well as his father keeps them bound together for perpetuity. or at least, as long as till and his music career and spying remain profitable.

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT DUMBASS? is scribbled across a new page of till's signature notebook and held up in front of luka's face. coming face-to-face with the alien stage champion was an important part of today's plan, but till didn't anticipate how difficult it would be to look into the eyes of someone who was so merciless to him onstage. someone whose face is plastered across every billboard in the city. someone who represents the system the revolutionaries have dedicated their lives to fighting against.

yet, he has to remind himself that luka is just as trapped as the rest of them. from what his companions were told back when hyuna was alive, heperu is a nasty piece of work. nastier than urak, even. which is saying something.

it's important to remember that luka didn't turn out this way in a vacuum. the words bounce around in his head, the mental image of a terrified child trying to reconcile itself with the dead-eyed man before him. how many years did it take for luka to lose his empathy? did he have any to begin with, or did they clone it out of him?

(link clink au!)

❝ what're you whistling at, jackass? ❞

it comes out before he can think to stop himself — and as he turns around to glare at the perpetrator, his blood runs cold as he realizes who it is. if till's old man hears about him mouthing off a high-ranking officer, he's gonna get his shit kicked in. he can almost imagine what it would be like if he were in the hallway with them, a broad hand squeezing his shoulder hard enough to make his thin bones creak.