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You're almost 30 and your body crumbles.
Which is — which is reasonable , given the circumstances, but that hardly makes it any better. Luka’s parents blessed him with high expectations he was supposed to exceed and a whole collection of chronic diseases. You'd expect them to have at least some leniency towards a sick child, but all Luka gets is extra classes and advice he never asked for. “Doctors said you're most likely not making it to 40,” They said. “You better do your best while you last”. So a 6 years old Luka takes the sentiment at a face value and internalizes it to the best of his capacities, because he's a child and parents must know better. That's how that works, right?
A 15 years old Luka is repeatedly told that everything he achieved must've been thanks to his parents and not years worth of his meticulous hard work. By then he knows better than to argue and just smiles. A 23 years old Luka thinks that despite everything his parents must've raised him right, because here he is, relishing in the blindingly bright spotlight, rich, famous and successful.
Luka at 27 thinks that if his parents were kinder, he might've learned that there is more to life than numbers and contracts and vocal exercises, but what does he know. Luka has a carefully crafted career to uphold, and it requires him to maintain his facade. Is it a facade if that's just what he has been this entire time?
Luka doesn't know.
He helps Till write his goddamn debut song. Till is talented, but Till is also smart enough to know not every song can be a debut one, no matter how good it is, so he asks Luka. Because Luka might be called all sorts of things but he has been in this business for longer than Till and knows what sells and what doesn't. And doesn't even ask to be credited for help, that's how generous he is, because Till is probably one of the few people that can fall into a “friend” category if you define it loosely enough.
Ivan looks like he's going to kill him for helping Till the next time their gazes meet. Luka does not smile. Ivan does, but it's one of those coldly articulated ones he wears to show off his snaggletooth better as if presenting it as a weapon to the world. A warning, maybe. As if Luka cares, because he doesn't. He hates Ivan, he hates Till in advance because he knows they're meeting in the next round of Alien Stage and Till will inevitably lose and be pissed off at him for like a week or two, hates the projectors on this specific stage and hates this goddamn month.
Maybe this entire season, actually, because in-between the Alien Stage rounds he has other duets lined up. Duo photoshoots, even.
Ivan’s voice harmonizes with his incredibly well and Luka hates it, because Ivan has this fucking snaggletooth that blinds people more than Luka’s white clothes on stage from time to time and he hates sharing. He blames Ivan for it, knowing that he probably shouldn't. It wasn't his idea to make an idol unit out of the two, and Ivan isn't the worst option, either, especially given that they are familiar with each other on pretty positive terms. And yet.
Ivan smiles because it's his job. Luka smiles because he has nothing else to smile about in his life.
Mizi’s fist hurts, and Luka doesn't deserve it, not really, but he knew Mizi will be pissed off for his performance even if it made the crowd go wild and her next concert will outsell instantly and oh there is blood on the make-up table. Did she break his nose? She probably broke his nose. His producer will not be happy.
“You're a horrible person,” she spits out, shaking him by the collar of his shirt.
“I will sue you for physical offense,” Luka says like he means it even though he really doesn't.
Mizi yells something else that Luka doesn't bother listening to and his jaw burns more than he hoped it would. Yes, he went off-script mid performance, yes, he tangled her into a dance, yes, he was too close for Mizi’s comfort, and yes, all socials will be on fire for the next several weeks discussing his stunt and their (completely artificial) proximity, because no one knows Sua is the only person that exists in Mizi’s heart and everyone assumes performances are to be taken at a face value. Mizi should be grateful to him, frankly, for pulling the attention towards the idea of them being close with each other, away from the whole Sua ordeal. That is supposed to make her life easier in a sense.
Mizi thinks otherwise, clearly. Whatever. Performances that sell well are worth it, and Luka is damn sure this one will. He owns the stage in a way Mizi doesn't and never could, and they both know it.
“Mizi, I think that's enough,” Sua’s soft voice makes its way through the curtain of agonizing red that Luka sees. The hand that was gripping his shirt disappears and he slumps to the floor like an inanimate object, tasting metal on his tongue and dust on his teeth. The dressing room is still a blur and he's mildly annoyed with how disoriented he feels.
There's no apologies or discussions, only Sua whispering sweet nothings to her girlfriend as she drags Mizi outside the room. After the door slams closed behind them, Luka carefully presses the sleeve of his stark white costume to his nose and watches it become crimson inch by inch at a time.
Whatever. He has like 15 identical ones, anyway.
“I’m sorry for breaking your nose last time,” Mizi says over the phone, “I need your help.”
“What a conversation starter,” Luka whistles. Given how there's a shuffle and Mizi curses under her breath, the whistle must've made her shudder instinctively. Luka finds that amusing to a degree.
“I take my apology back, you deserved it,” she groans, “Do you have an open window this week?”
“Friday past 5 pm,” he answers without looking at his schedule.
“Meet me at 6 at the usual place,” and then Mizi hangs up.
The usual place in question is what Luka would call a medium level-of-fancy restaurant. Food there isn’t particularly special or tasty, not better than at any other place, really, but it’s the one they would celebrate their graduation and successful contracts or performances at. Sentimental value is a strong beast, and the owners of the place always have a remote table booked just for their company at all times.
So when he shows up right on time in his more casual attire (which is still a white, but more simplistic shirt with a beige sweater thrown over it) he finds Mizi right where he expects her to be. What he doesn’t expect is Ivan sitting next to her, usual smiles and all.
“Well, this sure is a curious cast of people,” he sighs, taking the empty chair on the opposite side of Mizi.
“Good evening to you, too,” says Mizi. Ivan just nods at him. Luka rolls his eyes and flickers his hand at the nearby waiter to summon them to the table.
They exchange pleasantries and life updates after ordering food as if they haven’t met on set less than a week ago. Mizi still goes on a tangent about her recent interview, and Luka feels like he has heard this exact monologue at least twice already despite not directly speaking with her since Round 5.
“You said you needed my help?” he interrupts once he’s done with his meal.
“Oh! Right!” Mizi almost drops her fork, “Sorry. Long story short, but I wanted to prepare a surprise for Sua’s birthday with the, you know. As many of the former original cast as possible.”
“And I’m participating.”
“Obviously. But we also need to invite Till, but I have a separate mission in preparing stuff for obvious reasons, Hyuna is not in the city and sending Ivan after him would be a crime.”
“So you resorted to me as your last option,” narrows his eyes Luka.
“The way you phrase it makes it sound like a bad thing,” Mizi winces.
“It technically is a bad thing.”
“Please?” she sounds surprisingly polite for someone who sent Luka to an ER not long ago, “And Ivan will pay for dinner.”
“And I will pay for dinner,” Ivan repeats obediently, sounding like that isn’t a part of the original agreement he had with Mizi.
Luka does not care about paying for dinner. He could order several bottles of every expensive alcohol that there is in this restaurant and his bank account would not be affected in the slightest. He’s rich enough to not even look at restaurant tabs when he pays them.
And yet.
“Fine,” he sighs, swiping his phone out of his pocket to dial Till’s number, “But Ivan pays for dinner.”
When his phone rings as the day slowly starts blending into a late evening, Luka already knows who it is and precisely why. He is also starting to think he is going to stop picking up any non-business phone calls soon if this December keeps going the way it is going.
“Luka. Luka, I fucked up,” Ivan breathes into the speakers, sounding like he’s about to cry.
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Luka replies, eyeing his TV screen that replays Round 6 for the second time in a row.
“No, you don't get it, I—”
“I do get it, actually. In full screen HD.”
“Oh my god .”
“ My god, my universe, ” he quotes, turning off the screen with a sigh, “So what now?”
There’s a moment of silence before Ivan speaks again.
“Can I come over?”
“Sure. I’ll send you the location,” Luka replies nonchalantly and promptly hangs up.
He starts doubting his nonchalantness half an hour later when Ivan shows up at his door still in the same outfit he was on the stage, clearly drunk.
It is not to say Ivan is unwelcome. It just feels weird. Partially because he and Ivan aren’t really this close and partially because the last person to walk inside his house was Hyuna at the very least 3 years ago.
“Luka,” his voice sounds way too small for someone who is taller than Luka by at least 5 inches.
“Please get in the apartment without tripping on the doorstep, I physically will not be able to pick you up,” he leaves Ivan to fight his shoelaces in the corridor and disappears further into his not so humble abode.
It’s less of an apartment and more of a two level penthouse with a staircase in the middle that is surprisingly dimly lit and is mostly kept in black and dark gray colors. You’d expect a man who wears exclusively white clothing to have some more tolerance towards light colors, but no one ever visits him and hence those expectations and theories go unanswered anyway. He confidently strides into the kitchen that is merged together with the living room and has a wall made fully out of glass with a panoramic view of the city.
By the time Ivan is done curiously looking around Luka has already fished out of his minibar one of the more expensive bottles of alcohol he owns, because Ivan might be drunk but clearly not drunk enough as today is calling for.
“I might just be the worst person you could call in this situation,” he says flatly, pouring a glass of whiskey and sliding it across the table towards Ivan, “My one and only serious relationship was a situationship at best.”
Technically a still ongoing one, he grimly adds. But that’s a level of honesty he’s not ready to disclose yet.
“It cannot be worse than mine,” Ivan slumps in the empty chair with another deep sigh.
“Sure,” Luka rolls his eyes, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own glass in hand, “Tell me more?”
By the time Sua comes around to pick her brother up, a slightly tipsy Luka by some miracle has managed to somewhat safely deposit a sleeping Ivan on his couch. They exchange unimpressed looks – Sua because of Ivan and Luka because of the fact that Sua also knows his address now.
“I don’t think you’re taking him home anytime soon unless you want to wake him up,” he says, holding the door open.
“No thank you,” she scrunches her nose. Luka shares the sentiment, frankly.
“Then be my guest for an undetermined amount of time, I guess,” he makes a vaguely welcoming gesture towards the living room and shuts the door behind her, “Whiskey?”
“No thank yo– Actually ,” Sua takes one good look at her out cold brother before turning back to Luka with an indecipherable emotion on her face, “Yes, please.”
Luka hunts for another clean glass across his wooden cupboards. Sua takes the same spot at the table Ivan did earlier in the night and shuffles in the small bag she has slung over her shoulder.
“By the way, since I’m stuck here, can I ask you to take a look at my new song? I’m mostly done with it, but I feel like something is missing.”
Luka looks at the notebook Sua is holding, at Sua herself, at the notebook again and finishes his glass in one go.
“Sure,” he snatches the paper out of her hands as he sits down at the table, “Let me quickly look over.”
It’s a good song and Luka makes only a few simple adjustments to polish it here and there arrangement-wise, and Sua turns out to be incredibly easy to talk and work with. By the time Ivan finally wakes up he and Sua have finished the bottle and drafted another song completely from scratch and Luka is inclined to say Sua is nicer to hang out with than Ivan himself.
So, when Luka presses his thumb into Till’s lip mid performance, positioning his other hand on his neck the exact same way Ivan did, he can technically call it charity. Given how distressed Till looks he must’ve realized something important that left him disoriented enough for Luka to absorb most of the audience’s attention in the meantime. Ivan gets his relationship development and Luka gets to go home with the title of this Alien Stage season’s champion in his pocket, so everyone is happy. Well, except, maybe, Till, but once he gets to his logical conclusion with his friend-not-friend he will be, too.
The look Ivan gives him once Luka returns to the backstage is evidently telling him that he is, in fact, not happy. Quite on the contrary, actually. Whatever. He can thank Luka later. Or not, Luka doesn’t care. The taller man is dragged away by Till before he can say anything anyway.
There's broken glass scattered across the floor, and there's Luka in the middle of it. Shards blend in together with the floor and glisten red, absorbing the color from Luka’s cut open palm, and Luka desperately rasps for air, hearing them crunch under his weight and bite into his shirt. His costume must be as torn as he feels. His producer will not be happy about it, but he has like a dozen almost identical ones, anyway. And he didn't mean it. The glass he was holding shattered in and beyond his grip, and then Luka shattered right afterwards.
He scrapes across the surface until his half numb fingers reach the base of the table under the sink and he clings to it, trying to pull himself back to his feet. His arms give out halfway through the motion with a shudder and he miserably falls back to the floor, narrowly avoiding smashing his head against the cold tiles. He doesn't feel it, nor does he feel the sharp glass digging into his skin, because the heart that violently hammers against his ribcage is what hurts most with distinctly burning from the lack of oxygen lungs as a close contestant.
He manages to get up from his second attempt and wavers for a few moments before clutching to the edges of the sink so hard his knuckles turn white. The air is still scarce and whatever glimpses of it that he manages to get inside his respiratory system just hurt him even more than straight up choking on them, and his inhaler is still in the living room a million miles away. He's not even sure it will help because he isn't sure which one of his collection of chronic diseases decided to act up.
The stained crimson glass makes him nauseous. His hand feels like it's caught up in-between pieces of crumpled metal again. He considers calling someone, but out of the two people who he'd want to see, one is dead and another has changed her phone number long ago.
Luka has also allegedly moved on from her. But it is a little bit hard to move on when you see the person you're supposed to move on from on huge billboards and magazine covers every other week. Since Hyuna is not signed to a specific agency like most of them are, she has the ability to be everywhere and nowhere at once, embracing the “freedom” that she always wanted. Whatever that term means to her. To Luka it means getting caught off guard by radio commercials and borderline heart attacks at least once a month.
Not the same heart attack he's getting now, because it's different, it's new and it fucking hurts. He waits for whatever it is to subdue, and to his relief it does dull bit by bit at a time— He could call Ivan, technically, now that he thinks of it, but the mere idea of it sends him for another spiral.
Whatever. He's fucking fine because he said so, because he's an adult man nearing his 30s and he can survive a small health decline by himself. No big deal. He felt worse in his life. It's just the glass thing. He doesn't need Hyuna or Ivan of all people. He's fine.
He breaks a second glass not even five minutes later and dials Ivan’s number in hopes he doesn’t pick up.
Luka hates being openly weak in anyone’s presence, let alone someone younger than him. And yet here he is, sprawled across his pitch dark leather couch, watching Ivan’s figure move around the living room with barely focused eyes, because Ivan did pick up and did appear quite swiftly to Luka’s surprise. But then again, he didn't expect him to show up at all, not just 2 days after what happened in round 7, let alone pry him off the floor and almost carry him through the entire apartment. Just because he collapsed almost right after he opened the door to let him in. If Luka could feel shame, he would.
Ivan sits on the edge of the couch, looking directly at him. A third of his face and a ceiling is all Luka sees before the image goes for a spin and he is forced to screw his eyes shut. His producer will not be happy about this, because he'll have to ask for a day or two off work. He feels appropriately miserable about it.
“Is that a thing that happens?” Ivan says in an even tone Luka has never heard him use in the 10 years he has known him. It feels threatening to a degree.
“Not really. Don’t tell anyone,” Luka’s voice sounds too hoarse for his own liking.
“I won't,” Ivan promises, “But this looks like a thing that should be told.”
Luka suppresses hysterical laughter into a singular chuckle. A part of it resonates somewhere deep within his skull as a forewarning for an upcoming migraine, but what else is new in Luka’s life.
“If you mean it in a professional way, then I’ve had a list of diagnoses since I was 12. If you mean it in a friendly way, then what’s the use in knowing? It changes nothing. Only makes me look worse and more pitiful.”
“This is why no one likes you,” Ivan sighs.
“I don’t like anyone, either,” he replies coolly, prying one of his eyes open, “I didn't expect you to pick up.”
Ivan flashes him his signature toothy grin.
“You never call from your personal number. I figured something must've been really wrong.”
“It wasn't.”
“It was. ”
“Weren't you angry at me for the Stage’s finale?” Luka raises his eyebrow.
“I— Look,” Ivan presses his palms into his eyes, scowling, “I was upset. Still am. What you did wasn't a good thing to do and to my understanding you're not sorry for that, either. I feel like I'm justified in my anger—”
“You sure are. That's why I'm surprised you're here.”
“Will you let me finish speaking?” his hand grabs Luka's shoulders as if he's going to run. As if he can , “You’re an asshole. You're not the nicest person I've met, but you're not the worst, either. I fucking know you. We studied together. We work together. I stayed over recently. And,” Ivan pauses to inhale through gritted teeth, “I consider you a friend. And if a friend calls me, I'll answer.”
“A friend,” thoughtfully echoes Luka.
His motivational speech (if he can call it that) is amusing in an endearing way. What does being a friend entail to Ivan? Luka’s own definition of the said term was vague to begin with and only got less articulated with years, but thinking about it now, maybe he hates Ivan less than his other colleagues. Calling him a friend doesn't feel repulsive or wrong. Luka dubbed Till as a friend before, anyway, so he sighs, admitting defeat.
“Thank you,” then adds for good measure, “I owe you.”
“Consider it a repayment for round 6,” Ivan snorts.
Hyuna seems better. Happier, at least, as if she finally moved on from the death of her brother. Which she didn't, and which she still probably blames Luka for, even if it wasn't really his fault (which is true and which he doesn't believe one bit himself), but she's laughing so loudly he might as well assume she doesn't hate him.
The thought makes him bitter to a degree. He once thought of Hyuna’s life to be forever his, and if Hyuna doesn't harbor even a slightest bit of resentment towards him… Well. He knew she never loved him, but he was perfectly content with the idea of being a horrible past experience that haunts her for the rest of her days, and he's not even that. A pity.
“Driving a motorcycle with a prosthetic leg is much easier than you think it is,” Hyuna laughs, waving her napkin in the air, “Though learning to switch gears was a bit of a hassle, but that’s just a hassle in general for anyone.”
It’s lunch time and it’s one of the simpler cafes lost somewhere in the creases between lively boulevards and highways. Luka hasn’t been to a place like this in ages, partially because due to privacy reasons and partially because he either goes out with important business people or doesn’t go out at all, except rare outings with their graduation friend group for a lack of a better term.But Hyuna doesn’t care about being noticed by people or her public image, because she’s always been free to do however she pleases and never liked strict corporate terms. Mischievous sparks dance in her eyes.
“I could probably offer you a ride to work, if you’re curious to meet my new metallic beast,” she offers it with such ease as if Luka didn’t kill her brother and almost killed them both, too. As if they haven’t barely talked for several years.
“It’ll be an honor,” he smiles back, and a painful skip in his heart does makes his smile just a bit more genuine than Luka intended it to be.
Hyun Woo was loud, upbeat and reliable, and was sure to murder Luka in cold blood if anything was to happen to his sister, but in the end it went the opposite way.
He was great at orienteering missions, and while the extreme ones he and Hyuna would usually work with in a tandem, Hyuna was considerably much better at Agent missions, given her confident appearance and bright smile. Luka would stick to being a designated driver or a coordinator if he felt like it. Mostly a driver, though, because it was his Alteza after all, and he was 24 and invincible. They all were, to be fair, because that’s the only kind of people that play Encounter on weekends. Hyuna wastes her paycheck on the equipment for her and her brother, while Luka wastes his on rebuilding bits and pieces of his car. Split responsibilities, team work, yada yada.
They make a great team, actually. They’re known for being close to winning almost every other game, and another every other they do win. He lets himself smile about it as he taps his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of a random song playing on the radio as he waits, parked outside of an abandoned hospital building.
“This fucking place is monitored,” Hyuna barks, slamming the door with full force as she falls on the backseat in exhaustion, “We lost so much time on one of the top floors only for the code to be in the damn basement. ”
“We’re still ahead,” Luka swipes across his tablet and nods to Hyun Woo who slides into the passenger seat to the left of him, “What’s the code?”
“587EN222A11,” his seatbelt clicks in place as Luka’s fingers dance across the glass screen, “What’s up?”
“It’s a photo for the next location,” Luka groans, turning the tablet towards the siblings.
“No ideas,” Hyun Woo winces, “Noona?”
Hyuna squints at the blurry picture for a good half a minute.
“Looks like a river boulevard to me.”
“Half-destroyed gas station towards the south end of it,” Hyun Woo claps his hands together, “Let’s go, I’ll guide.”
Luka slams the gas pedal into the floor.
The 3S-GE engine makes an appropriately loud, roaring sound as it winds up into motion. Speedometer’s arrow is in the red in a matter of seconds, and the car is on the highway for another minute before they fly into the city streets. The night lights are glittering, the streets are empty, and Hyuna’s laughter rings in the air through the open windows. Hyun Woo is giving directions. There's wind ravaging through Luka’s hair and he’s smiling– And then they’re already on the boulevard, bathing in the night breeze, in the feeling of being ahead of everyone by a mile. The feeling of being the best. And–
“ Luka! ” and he sees it before he hears Hyun Woo scream.
A ram truck in front of them instead of the oncoming lane, appearing from an adjacent street. Their team is one in the right, but it doesn’t matter – not at the speed they’re going. But hitting the brakes will send them rolling instantly, and there’s not enough space to maneuver around it because they’re driving across a fucking river. So Luka does the only thing he can do – throw the steering wheel as far to the right as he can and pray .
Alteza slips past the truck, missing it by just inches, and hits the sidewalk. Luka tries to stir it diagonally away, but one of the wheels grazes the road sign and they’re sent flying anyway. Everything twists together and the sound of metal crumpling fills his senses.
It’s loud. Luka doesn’t know how many flips the car does until it stops and he finds himself upside down, hand trapped between a mangled door and control panel.
There’s broken glass everywhere. He blankly watches his fingers twitch, not feeling them. Not hearing anything.
And then it’s dark again.
Luka's Alteza is just as unsalvageable as are Hyuna’s leg and Hyunwoo’s life.
Hyuna leaves the city 2 days after a closed casket funeral with a brand new metal prosthetic limb. Luka never drives a car if there's anyone else with him in it.
He regrets a lot when it comes to Hyuna. Being not persistent enough, being too persistent, not saying the things he felt out loud despite not even understanding them that well back then, not noticing the car, not wanting the same kind of freedom she wants because if it was given to him he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He wonders when his one and only faint feeling of love spiraled into an obsession. He sees her, sometimes, – a shadow on the sidelines, a faint figure in the audience that isn’t really there, a faraway ring of her laughter. He knows it’s just another migraine induced hallucination, though.
Now that he’s holding a very much physical contract for a duo modeling photoshoot, Hyuna's name on it is not a hallucination, because Hyuna herself told him about it during their little lunch meeting. He knew it’s scheduled for next week. He signed the damn papers himself. He doesn’t know why he did and he doesn’t know why Hyuna did, either.
Luka absent-mindedly dials Ivan’s phone number, abruptly hates himself for it, and then lets it ring through anyway. Ivan, unsurprisingly, picks up.
“Remember that situationship I’ve mentioned?” Luka asks before Ivan can start speaking first.
“What about it?”
Luka opens his mouth to answer. Closes it. Winces at the entire predicament.
“Can I come over?” he says at last.
“Sure. I’ll send you the location,” replies Ivan and promptly hangs up.
Whoever decided to put them into a single photoshoot was a genius.
They both shine as bright as stars, but in completely contradicting ways. Hyuna’s light is warm, welcoming all the passing travelers, guiding them and seeing them off when needed. Luka is bright, blinding and breathtakingly cold. Look at me, he says. Look at me, obey me and me only and never leave. Hyuna is wearing a long, sleek abyss black dress that looks like half of Luka’s apartment does; Luka is wearing an asymmetrical white shirt with frills because of course he does. That’s his entire brand.
“Your life is mine,” says the magazine headline, because of course it does.
There's no glass on the floor but it feels like there should be.
“He’s unlikely to make it to 40.” Luka is 27 and there’s no glass but there very well might be some in his lungs, because there must be something that is tearing his respiratory system apart. One of his heart atriums, too.
“What happened to my life being yours?” Hyuna’s grip on his shoulders is so strong something in his bones might just snap.
“I retract my statement,” he wheezes out, “That would be stripping you of your freedom, and that’s a core part of you.”
“Don’t water me down to a single fucking notion,” there’s metal in her voice, but there’s something else, too. Luka raises his hand to push her away – or pull her in, he hasn’t decided, – but his fingers twitch and jitter and his arm limply falls back, refusing to obey. Luka leans more into the cold wall of the backstage he’s borderline pinned to and slowly slides down to the floor.
The lights are too bright, the oxygen is too sparse, his blood vessels are too weak and the dark spots in his vision obscure Hyuna too much.
“Why are you back in the city?”
“Acquaintances to visit, jobs to consider,” Hyuna shrugs, “Roads to travel. You to see.”
“You to see,” echoes Luka.
Hyuna says all these things with such ease while Luka fails to accomplish even breathing. Because it is that easy for Hyuna, because–
Because it’s not easy, Luka realizes. Hyuna cannot escape her past, her dead brother or Luka, because no one can run from something like that, but she learned to withstand it. Got stronger. More independent, more considerate, more everything than he never was and never even tried to be – learned to live , and Luka is slowly dying. Come to think of it, Hyuna always knew how to, and Luka never did.
Opposites through and through, endlessly and forever drawn to each other.
“Let’s go home, Luka,” there’s something so very sorrowful and sad in Hyuna’s eyes. Luka hates being pitied, but he cannot bring himself to hate this, because it doesn’t feel like pity. It’s something he is not worthy of, probably, but Luka will take it with both hands, hold on and ask for even more, because that’s just how he is, greedy and selfish. And if Hyuna is still here despite that after so many years, then it must mean something. Luka just doesn’t know what exactly.
“Only if you drive me,” is the response he gives.
“Of course I will,” Hyuna snorts, helping him up, “I am not letting you drive in my presence again.”
“Rude.”
“Says you of all people, my goodness. You haven’t changed with the years at all.”
“Neither did you,” Luka smiles.
“Neither did I,” agrees Hyuna.
Hyuna’s hand turns the throttle handle to its full capacity. There’s wind in her hair, there’s her hair in Luka’s eyes and that’s all he can see. There’s Hyuna’s laughter in the air and Luka laughs along, feeling like he’s five years younger than he is, holding onto Hyuna’s waist a little tighter.
If he’s not making it to 40, then he’s making what little time he has left worth it.