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Summary
Luka’s eyes are dark, distant, measuring something intangible. “Flowers are meant to be pretty.” He speaks quietly with a tinge of detachment. He steps closer, the space between them closing with each word. “But here you are, attending the aftermath of your own ruin.”
Ivan doesn’t falter. “I guess that makes two of us, then.”
He knows who Luka pretends he is, and Luka knows who Ivan pretends he is. They are each other’s perfect apparitions.
ivan tries to drink his qualms away and luka’s there for some reason. they make out because why wouldn’t they while ivan thinks in poetic mannerisms