Hello hello hello, I'm here to ask for like headcanons or an imagine (or whatever, idk, can you tell I've never requested a fic in my entire life) about Luka slowly realizing he actually has feelings for someone? Like genuine ones? I'm not super duper into Alien Stage but I imagine him being super fake (and manipulative lol) especially when it comes to dating. Like, I don't even think he would get into a relationship if he doesn't get something out of it, but what if he, y'know, slowly starts to realize he actually likes the person he's with? Like how would he deal with that and stuff 🫣
GOLDEN BOY, BROKEN GLASS, MAY THE SUN SHINE ON YOU !!
premise— it’s hard to know, to realize, that he has fallen in love, not when the genuine concept of it has been slowly eradicated and painted into something twisted and cruel by the hands of these aliens; alternatively, what he’s like slowly falling in love and coming to terms with it.
content tags and warnings — pairing: luka (w/ gender-neutral reader) | kind of established relationship, not an alternative universe, slight angst with fluff, i fucking hate you heperu (heperu is luka’s guardian alien) | wc: 0.7k ; headcanons
"jellyfish"— i was listening to sad music so now this came out as sad
The ‘love’ LUKA had received from Heperu was the only love he had known and so, he views the world around him in the same lens, carving his heart out of the same rotten wood that was used to create his being. What can he do in the face of something so tender, so sharp, so gentle, like needles stabbing into his hands but caressing him sweetly all the same?
Was love meant to be as draining as this? Was it meant to tire and wear out his bones? Was it meant to make his heart clench, thorns ripping at his throat? Was it meant to make him reach his hand out for you, to let his touch linger across your skin, to always seek the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his? It’s a little strange, the odd ‘pain’ in his chest blurring into an unfamiliar feeling of comfort and warmth. He’s not one to run away at the face of such unusual feelings, but maybe he’ll turn away from it, to dismiss it as nothing (it’s not what Heperu taught him).
When did his eyes start to follow you everywhere you go? When did he begin to wish to chase the shooting stars, despite the constricting feeling on his throat, just so he could have the chance to see you, bare and flawed underneath the same skies that had forsaken him, that had abandoned you? He never had seen the problem of hurting others or being hurt as long as it is meant for him, for his own good, but when he sees twist in your expression, the hollow in your eyes, the tremble of your lips, he’s suddenly bitter and thorned. He tries to be kind, in ways that he knows of, in ways that he has seen, experienced, and learned.
To be seen as nothing but manipulative and cunning with his princely and charming demeanor, to be seen as a blank slate, to be seen only on the surface of his sweet smiles that never seem to reach his eyes. But it’s better to be misunderstood than to have you see the wretched and tangled strands that is sewn to create the fabric of his existence, to be viewed under the same limelight he is being put beneath than to have you notice the bleakness of color in his golden eyes that rivals the sun—except his light never exists, only when he gazes at you does it ever shine.
It’s hard to understand him either—not when he cannot understand himself also. He wishes to take away all of your pain, all of your problems and worries, to have you rely on him and only on him, to view the world in your eyes, to cup your cheeks in his hands and press his lips against yours (he has heard of the act of kissing, a strange way to convey and pour one’s desire, adoration, and love to another). He’ll lie down on the grass with you and watch the stars, he’ll listen to your songs and music, he’ll let you put those red flowers found in the Anakt Garden on his hair.
Maybe he does and say such things in the name of ‘control’, ‘possession’, ‘obsession’, or anything that can be used to label whatever reason he has just so he could see that pretty shade that adorns your cheeks, the smile that etches across your lips, the sound that bubbles out of your throat, the eyes that glimmer when you look at him. Maybe it’s just those feeble things that make him feel humane, that makes him break away from the shackles that binds him to the image of ‘Luka, the star’, that makes him realize that he does adore you.
(Whatever this fragile bond you share with him, built on weak foundations of the love he has known and the love you have shared, fragile and fleeting like glass teetering on the edge, he’ll seize it, he’ll shape it, and he’ll make it unbreakable—he’ll make it real, he’ll make it his.)
He likes to believe that he deserves the kind of love he has yet to know of, out of the clutches of Heperu and into the warmth of your own. To hold it into his hands, tightly, unrelenting, never letting go—contorting into control as long as it is his.
— summary; after you become a zombie, luka follows after you.
— warnings; DEAD DOVE, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. MINORS DNI.
— notes; this is my first time writing for zombie stage & i literally do not watch it, i just happened to see luka one day and attached myself to him like a leech bc boy hot. reblogs are appreciated and pls donate to my Ko-Fi if you like my stuff!
He comes to see you alone.
No managers.
No cameras.
Just the whisper of the door easing open and the sound of his shoes on concrete, too light, too clean for a place that smells like blood and rotting flesh and disinfectant.
This is what your world has been reduced to, when the spotlights dim and the cheering fades away.
A small holding room under the stage, dark and dank and cramped, tucked out of existence.
And you — what’s left of you — strapped tight to a metal table. Wrists, ankles, chest. Blindfold pulled tight over the empty sockets of your eyes.
They took them last week for the auction block.
Your nostrils flare.
Catching the scent of him, of the faint chemical sweetness of his stage makeup under the burning, scorching antiseptic.
Then you thrash.
The restraints scream under how hard your hips jerk up, hard enough to bruise. A long, high-keening sound rips out of your throat — Lu . . . Luh — wet and bloodied and ruined, syllables collapsing into moans, because the infection has robbed you of just about everything. Your fingers claw helplessly at nothing. Your body twisting and contorting towards the sound of his voice like a plant turning towards sunlight.
Luka stops just inside the door. He doesn’t flinch at the smell of rot and decay, the blood dripping from your body, how you twist and jerk helplessly against the restraints trying to get to him. He tilts his head in the same way he does on camera when he’s deciding how much of himself to give the fans. Princely. Bored. Interested under the surface in a way that never quite reaches pity.
Nnn . . . Lu . . . Aaaa . . .
He moves closer.
Stops at the edge of the table.
“. . . You still know me.”
The words sound soft. Pleased, almost, in his mouth. That little tilt in his tone, the one he uses when something finally behaves the way he wants.
He doesn’t take the blindfold off. He likes seeing you like this — straining, desperate, mouth agape and wet with saliva and blood, your body desperately trying to crawl out of its own skin to get to him. And when he trails two fingers down your jaw, fingers brushing through the wet mess of blood and saliva trickling down the corners of your mouth, you surge up so hard the table creaks, until your skin splits and fresh blood pours. A long, broken moan. A please lost somewhere in the wetly desperate mess of sound.
“Shhh,” He croons, and his voice is poison encased in velvet. The smile on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m here.”
He leans in.
The kiss isn’t gentle.
He doesn’t know how to be gentle; he never learned softness and tenderness after he was broken and rebuilt by that hellish place he was born and raised in.
He kisses you with the same precise cruelty he brings to his performances: he seals his mouth over yours and takes and takes until there is nothing left of you to give. Tongue pushing past your teeth, swallowing down iron and infection and the sound you make when you finally get what you’ve been thrashing for. You kiss him back like you’re starving. Like some buried piece of you is still in love and screaming through all the rot and decay.
He can feel the infection, surging through his cells and rewriting him from the inside out. The fever-sweet wrongness coating his tongue, sliding down his throat. He doesn’t flinch. Luka swallows all of it, and when he pulls back, a thread of saliva hangs still, connecting the two of you. His lips are shiny, and his eyes are dark in a way the cameras never get to see. The veins on the inside of his wrist are already darkening with poison, standing out in stark contrast to the milky paleness of his skin, and still, Luka looks at himself like he’s checking his newest costume.
“That's the transfer,” he murmurs, sweet, almost fond. “But it won’t be enough if I'm careful. And I'm never careful with you.”
He undresses you next.
Slow. Methodical. The paper-thin hospital shift pushed up, restraints loosened just enough to bare what he wants. The sensation of cool air on your fevered skin. His palms map you like he’s memorising a new choreography — waist, thighs, the soft flesh of your breast, the place between your legs already slick from nothing but his voice and the kiss.
Another wrecked moan leaves your lips while you writhe and arch so hard that the chest restraints creak, trying to say something that might be please, more but comes out sounding like p-hh… ahh— Luk-aa — nonsense words broken into pieces.
“Still mine,” he says quietly. Not a question. Just a fact.
When he gets your clothes off, your body decaying and ruined and beautiful, he doesn’t bother undressing himself — just enough for what he means to do. Belt, fly, expensive fabric shoved aside so he can line up and sink into you.
You break.
A raw cry tears out of your throat — high, shattered, half his name and half nothing at all. Your body clamps down around him like it’s trying to keep him inside you forever. He groans low against your throat, forehead pressed to yours over the blindfold, breathing through the strongest wave of infection yet that’s rewriting him from the inside, and through the hotter, simpler fact that he’s inside you and you’re his again.
He treats it like a private performance, the idol and a private, captivated audience of one. Driving into you with deep, measured thrusts at first — perfect control, hips rolling like he’s still on beat. As every roll of his hips drives the infection further into him — unnatural heat blooming under his skin, pulse stuttering, that beautiful composure breaking apart at the edges as the pleasure and virus are entwined together.
He fucks you like a vow. Like possession. While he fucks the sickness into himself and the last clean pieces of you into him. You can’t form sentences, just moans, sobs, broken gibberish — Luh — ah — ah — and he kisses it out of your mouth. Wet. Open. Filthy. Messy. Licking the garbled syllables off your tongue and giving them back as a low laugh against your teeth.
“Still in there,” he pants, almost wondering, almost cruel. “Still mine.”
He comes inside you, with a quiet, wrecked sound. His mouth sealing over yours again, kissing you through it, hips stuttering, the infection lighting up his bloodstream like stage lights. You follow on the feeling of him pulsing inside you and the taste of his breath going wrong-sweet. His name, ruined, leaving your lips over and over, nothing but heat and vowels and want.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays buried inside you still, forehead to yours, thumb stroking the rotted corner of your cheek and lips where you’re still trying to speak. Purple already creeping under his own nails. He looks wrecked and radiant and beautiful.
“There,” he whispers, almost tender, in the way that only Luka can make tender sound like a claim. His skin is already unnaturally warm, his eyes fever-bright. His pulse stutters, his heart beating wrong in his chest. “Now you don’t get to leave me, and I don’t get to leave you.” A soft, ruined little laugh. “Perfect, isn’t it?”
Later, when the alarms finally blare, and the handlers finally come flooding into the room, they find the famous idol half-dressed and already turning into a monster, his body still twined like a vine around the zombie on the metal table who won’t stop making soft, broken sounds into his throat.
And Luka, smiles that stage-perfect smile with blood on his teeth, a terrible, beautiful thing and says:
Can I request luka x reader from alien stage comfort?? I am craving one after watching wiege whatever it’s reader comforting him or the opposite); (doesn’t have to be after wiege either can be anything)
a/n : thanks for requesting !! also of course heh. I actually don't know how to write comfort (after 2 years of solely writing angst...) so I'm sorry in advance LMFAO
whisper to the trees (ask box) ... : open! feel free to request more alien stage, or any of the fandoms that are listen in my master list ^^
Backstage
luka x reader (comfort)
Today wasn't your day, and Luka could see that. Having been...well, not exactly the best person for his life in terms of empathy or sympathy, he gauges his competitors' emotions and laughs at the slightest hint of despair.
So when he sees the same expression that he usually delighted in when face to face against his 'rivals' on stage, now on you, he wasn't exactly sure on what to do.
You were sitting in the make up room, after another nameless PR stunt for the aliens. Something about this day in particular felt draining. Could it have been the burn out, perhaps? Or maybe something else? You weren't sure, but you felt like shit.
Luka was 'busy' reading his schedule(given to him by his alien secretary), but after hearing what felt like the millionth sigh from you, did he finally take action. He takes the space next to you, and immediately, you began to speak.
"Sorry. I disturbed what little bit of personal time you have left-"
"Is something going on?" He bluntly said, eyes staring straight into you. You paused. His words were outright, and his blank expression yet slightly gentle tone caught you off guard.
"No, not really... Just a bad day, I suppose."
He hummed, seemingly not believing it, but he nodded either way. He leaned back on the couch, eyes fluttering closed and his fingers holding the tips of your hair.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
You remain silent, and this time, he is the one that sighs. But not from sadness, no.
From exasperation.
"You don't need to tell me right away if that's what's keeping you from talking. I don't know what happens to you 24/7, but you don't need to pretend. We're not on screen, no one to see." His voice slightly shook as he continued. "So, just let it out. Even if you think I'll laugh. Even if you think it's stupid to."
"...I don't know. Today just feels worse than all the other days."
"Mmm...thats okay to feel. I've had days where I wanted to just run away."
"But you didn't."
"Because you're here."
"You can't be serious."
"Try me." He smiled. "It's true, though. I would've left this god forsaken place already if it weren't for you staying here. I wouldn't last that long out as a rogue, though."
You cracked a half hearted smile. "I don't exactly believe you, of all the humans, to abandon your survival over me."
He blinked yet again. His words took a soft but serious tone.
" I'm genuine about that. What, you really think I'm all bark no bite?" He smiles, pinching your cheek, though it wasn't painful. "I'd abandon all of the achievements I have and all of the privileges I forced myself to achieve for you. I mean, it wasn't my desire to be this way. It was my guardian's. What I really want is just you. You could beat me up, do anything you want, as long as you even acknowledge me."
"You're weird Luka."
"Whatever keeps you not being so depressed on me. Though I suppose I've failed in that aspect." Sighing, he tilts his head. "You don't need to be perfect all the time, you know. I see the way you try. And it's painful. Painful for me to watch you fight back tears and let out a fake smile; the same one I use. I prefer to see you genuine, even if that means all I see is your snot filled face. I'll still love you either way."
When you heard his last sentence, it cracked open a dam in you.
Something salty and wet dripped from your face, and before you realized it, you were crying. His words were cliche, standard, downright creepy, even, but he looked genuinely concerned at your demeanour. His hands twitched, expression contorting to one of acceptance and affection as you suddenly embraced him. It was warm but weirdly cold (mostly because he was just cold all the time). His hand wiped your tears, the other lightly rubbing your back. Hums left his mouth as each stray tear that left your eye was wiped away.
" Must be a really bad day, huh?...You'll be okay. Whatever you're crying about, I think it'll just pass."
His usual masked face he used, now discarded into a more vulnerable state. Now, it was a comforting, almost sweetly warm Luka. No longer was his on-stage persona, and the only thing that remains is the essence of emotion that even his guardian couldn't remove from him. Being human.
summary: you found the cutest plushie in a claw machine, but can't get a hold of it. fortunately, a handsome stranger shows up to help you out.
cw: modern au, first meeting, probably ooc luka ?
content under the cut | masterlist
today was not your lucky day.
for the nth time in such a short span of time, you popped yet another coin into the slot, once again purchasing three attempts to get that adorable plushie from the claw machine at the local fair. you lost track of how much you'd already spent, and maybe that was for the better. you were pretty sure it was getting out of hand, but you were this far in and you didn't want to walk away empty-handed after putting in so much time, money, and effort.
a small group of kids was looking at you curiously as your hand moved to the joystick, navigating the robotic claw to be precisely above the desired plush. they'd been staring at you for quite some time now, because it must've been obvious how desperate you were to win. for you, it was torture, but you guessed it was pretty entertaining for them.
as you deemed its position to be correct, you slammed the button with a little too much enthusiasm, and the claw began its descend. hope filled your being as it gnawed at the plush, dragging it upward a few inches. but then the weight came to be too much to carry, and the stuffed toy fell down again.
it went like that for a good twenty minutes at this point, and although you've been stubborn for the past fifteen minutes, you were about to give up. you were out of coins, and the utter frustration you felt wasn't aiding in the game. yeah, it was time to head out and go home and forget about this stupidly cute plushie. you'd just find it online and get it way cheaper.
with a huff, you turned around, ready to stomp away from the cursed machine. but you nearly collided with a body that stood there and stumbled back in surprise. afore you was a guy with vibrant red hair and a smile that was evenly radiant. striking blue eyes gazed at you, and you momentarily forgot about your previous endeavors.
that guy was handsome.
"i'm sorry, i didn't see you," you brought out. "excuse me."
before you could get caught staring, you ambled away, but his voice calling out stopped you from moving any further.
"you wanted that stuffed toy, right?" the guy asked, his index finger pointing at the plushie you so desired.
"mhm," you nodded. "i just suck at... this." you vaguely motioned towards the clawing machine, smiling awkwardly.
"gimme a moment," the red-haired spoke, reaching into the left front pocket of his jeans and whipping out a coin. he tossed it up, flipping it mid-air before catching it again and popping it into the slot in one swift motion. he offered you an easy smile before he turned his back towards you.
the machine came to life again, emitting beeping sounds and lights flickering enthusiastically. you watched in awe as he confidently moved the claw towards the right position, and you realized what was going on. this dashingly handsome but unfamiliar guy was trying to win you the plushie you wanted so badly? you blinked. things like this didn't happen in real life, did they? then, why was it happening to you right now?
"alright, let's go," the guy hummed, before the palm of his hand met with the button. a buzzing sound followed, and the claw dipped deeper and deeper until it grabbed the plush.
together, you held your breaths as you gazed at the plushie's journey. the machine dragged it up and up, and with each stutter and hiccub, you feared that it would fall down – like it did when you wasted countless attempts. but it didn't, and it moved to the left until the stuffed toy dangled right above the square deposit. the claws opened, dropping the toy right where you wanted it.
victorious music came from the machine, and the handsome stranger bent down to retrieve it. he got back up, and when he was about to hand it to you, he seemed to think of something and retreated his hand.
"as a thank you, i think you should name it after me, hm?" he smiled cheekily, and it was such a contagious smile that the corners of your lips also curled up.
"that's fair," you agreed. "then, what should i name it?"
"the name is luka," the red-haired guy, now known as luka, introduced himself. he finally handed you the plushie, and you were quick to hug it against your chest.
"thank you so much, luka," you grinned widely. "you have no idea how much i wanted this one."
"oh, believe me, it was kinda obvious," luka laughed. "that's why i was like, okay, alright, i see a cutie and– oops."
he quickly slammed a hand over his mouth, but you had heard him clearly. for the second time in such a short time, you gazed at him in awe, and he looked back awkwardly.
"t-thanks," you uttered.
"w-what's your name?" he asked. "i don't think i asked."
"i'm y/n," you told him. "thanks again for the plushie, i'm–" you didn't know what else to say, so in order to emphasize your words, you rubbed your cheeks against the soft fabric lovingly. "i think the name luka suits it really well."
"well, y/n," luka began, scratching the back of his head in a cute, awkward manner. "if you want, you can return the favor by meeting me here again tomorrow? maybe we can play some games here together and–"
your gaze lit up at his words, and the shift in your expression allowed relief to ghost over luka's face. your answer was clear before you had spoken, and the red-haired guy smiled brightly.
"great, meet me here at seven pm?" he asked, and you nodded happily. now, you were really looking forward to that.
not only was this guy strikingly handsome, but he also was a sweetheart, judging from the way he stepped in and won you the plushie you failed to obtain by yourself. and now he kind of asked you out? it made your heartbeat pick up in joy, and you couldn't help the massive smile that almost split your cheeks.
you thanked him another time, and again, and again, until he jokingly shut you up by putting his index finger against your lips. after that, you bid your goodbyes – or rather, you parted ways with a see you tomorrow. on your way home, you were afloat in dreamland, because aeons, that guy stole your heart instantly.
— summary; you die in round 49. luka keeps seeing you.
— warnings; DEAD DOVE, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. MINORS DNI.
— notes; this is my first time writing for alien stage & i literally do not watch it, i just happened to see luka one day and attached myself to him like a leech bc boy hot. reblogs are appreciated and pls donate to my Ko-Fi if you like my stuff!
You were everything Luka wasn't.
While he was calculating heart rates and psychological warfare, you were writing love songs in the dark and the quiet, where you thought that no one could see you. Upbeat, stupid, hopeful things. He'd catch you humming and twirling in the hallways of Anakt Garden, all saccharine melodies about holding hands and first loves, and he’d feel something ugly coil in his gut that he couldn't name.
And later, years later, when the two of you were grown, no longer children —
He watches from a quiet corner as you bounce onto the stage with glitter on your eyelids and stars in your eyes, singing about summer love, lip gloss, and cherry cola. The Segyeins adored you — not because you were perfect, but because you were pretty. Dangerously so. The kind of pretty that made them overlook flat notes and missed steps.
That was always enough. Pretty girls don't need to sing well. Pretty girls just need to look breakable on camera.
And you, you used it like a weapon. The producers loved you for it. Put you in these tiny, barely legal outfits that concealed just as much as they revealed, and had you dance like a doll on strings. You performed through it. Smiled through it. Shined through it.
That was the carefully curated image you’d built up, and you leaned into it hard. If the aliens wanted to sexualize you, you’d give them a show they’d never forget. Short skirts, breathy vocals, body waves that made the arena go wild.
And Luka, Luka watches you from the shadows of the Top 3 quarters with the same detached curiosity a scientist might reserve for particularly interesting lab specimens. You’re an anomaly. A glitch in the system. By all rights, you shouldn’t have made it to the final round of Season 49. You were sloppy. Emotional. Soft.
And yet.
You did.
Against all odds.
The final round was supposed to be his coronation. His second consecutive win. His legacy.
You came out in white. Simple. Pretty. Resplendent. No glitter. No exposed skin. Just your authentic self, an acoustic guitar, and a song you’d written yourself.
The Segyeins went silent as you sang. Not the bubblegum pop they’d come to expect. Something raw. Something true. Luka stood frozen in the wings, his carefully maintained heart rate spiking to 110, then 130.
You were looking directly at him. Singing to him.
Confess I loved you
Just thinking of you
I know I’ve loved you from the start
He didn’t understand the tightness in his chest. He didn't understand why his fingers — those purple-tipped fingers that Heperu had trained to feel nothing — were trembling. He didn't understand the words you were singing.
Until the votes came in and the Segyeins, for once, chose sentiment over perfection. Chose him over you. You’d thrown it. Thrown everything — fame, safety, your life — just to tell him, in front of billions, that you loved him. That you’d loved him since you watched him count his fingers behind the practice room door. That you didn't care that he was broken.
Your final note hangs in the air, hauntingly beautiful.
And then, you smile.
You’re still smiling when they shoot you.
You’re still smiling when he sees you again that night.
You’re in his room, leaning against the wall where his training schedule was posted, wearing that little lace dress from your second round performance, the one that rode up on your thighs when you danced. “Miss me already, pretty boy?” You ask, light and teasing, and your voice makes his ears ring.
He blinks.
And you vanish with a laugh and a flutter of lace.
But you don’t stay gone.
He starts seeing you everywhere.
Not just in dreams. Not just in the quiet moments between sleep and wakefulness when he's sucking on his sleeve like a child seeking comfort. He sees you in the reflection of his violin. In the steam of his shower. In the space beside him in bed where no one has ever lain because Luka doesn't do that, Luka doesn't feel that, except —
In his most vivid hallucinations, you’re naked. Always. Standing in the corner of his room with your skin all pale and corpse-like, your hair tangled like seaweed, the brand on your hip matching his. You don't speak. You just watch, silent and unmoving, with those soft eyes that forgave everything, even the bullet, even the fact that he didn't save you, didn’t even try.
Sometimes he touches himself while you watch. It’s the only time his heart rate climbs above 90, and he doesn't panic. Your ghost-smile curves wider and he comes apart whispering your name like a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in, the phantom sensation of your thighs around his face fading like smoke.
Sometimes you're dead. Sprawled across his bedsheets like you own the place, still in that white sundress you’d died in, but there's a hole in your forehead, neat and centred and precise, and your smile is too wide, too red, splitting apart your face like a wound. “Do you even know what you lost?” You ask, and your sad, sweet voice echoes in his skull for hours.
He doesn’t cry. Luka doesn’t cry. But he presses his forehead to yours — cold, so cold — and counts backwards from one hundred until the hallucination fades and the ghost of you vanishes. You're not real. You died. Round 49. I won.
Sometimes you’re in his arms, warm and alive and whispering his name like a prayer. Those are the cruellest hallucinations. The ones where you crawl into his lap and kiss the corners of his mouth like you’re trying to crawl inside him, like you’re trying to memorise something that was never yours to keep. Where you guide his hands to your hips and rock against him, slow and unhurried, like the two of you have all the time in the world and he can almost — almost — pretend that he knows how to love, how to love you back, selflessly, selfishly, as you’d once loved him.
“I wrote that song for you,” you whisper, breath hot against his ear. “Do you understand now?”
He never does.
(Luka understands being a product. He just doesn't understand why you looked at him like he was something else.)
The other participants think he's losing his mind.
Mizi catches him talking to empty corners. Till finds him staring into nothing but empty air with his violin bow suspended, his eyes glassy and distant and very far away. They don't know about you. They don’t know that Round 49 had a finalist who put her own life above his, who looked at Luka — the monster, the manipulator, the winner — and saw something worth saving.
Someone worth loving.
He keeps your song on his personal device. Listens to it when the migraines threaten to split his skull open, when the purple creeps up his fingers and he can’t feel his own heartbeat anymore. Your voice, tinny and compressed and faraway, singing words he still doesn’t understand.
Love is driving me a bit insane,
Have to get this off my chest
He counts his fingers through the whole track. Purple-tipped and trembling. Grounding himself. One, two, three, four, five. You're not real. You were never real. Love isn’t real.
But when he closes his eyes, you’re there. Beautiful and naked and dead and smiling and his, his, in a way that nothing else has ever been, and his chest aches with something that might be longing if he had the vocabulary for it.
