Work Text:
Being in the same class and, naturally, the same industry as Luka is nothing short of infuriating.
He is neither arrogant nor fully comfortable with his fame - Till knows this only because he looks like he'd rather eat a space beetle than be paraded around on a pedestal, and seems to shrink in on himself whenever he is dragged to the front of the class as a shining example - but he is blisteringly smart, with a frustrating habit of always pointing out others' mistakes.
Till, who is painfully average in almost every department, does not enjoy being paired up with him. Even his music, the one thing he knows he's good at, because it quells the churning anger that always rises to meet the segyeinro, pales in comparison to Luka's gifts. He plays the violin as though it is an extension of him, sings like a siren taught him how, and altogether makes it look easy. When Luka performs he becomes a different person.
How Till wishes he had the skill. His songs are wrought of feeling, the maelstrom of anger and fear and disbelief roaring inside him, a sort of incandescent emotion that bleeds into his stage persona. Ivan likened it to the behaviour of a wounded animal once, like they'd ever seen more than projections of the things. Said that maybe he is angry because he does not want to be scared, but what child wouldn't be terrified? Enslaved by aliens before even their providers were born, made to be their pets, taken on by a guardian like Urak of all monstrous things, and at last, when he became too much, sent to a place where his future is foretold. He will grow up here, and he will learn to sing and dance and play an instrument if he so wishes, and this talent of his, this prodigal skill, will be his last line of defence before he dies.
Ivan might have been right. Till hates when Ivan is right. Especially when it comes to him. But Luka, precious, saintly, sacred Luka, does not seem to notice Till steaming beside him. Doesn't blink when Till wrenches his guitar from its stand and sits, cross-legged, with the thing in his lap.
They're up in some quiet corner of the garden, against one of those too-smooth, too-green trees Luka likes to lurk around. Till is trying to remember the chords to this song Luka wrote for him, and Luka is doing a very good job of schooling his features when he butchers it.
It is strange, being in such proximity to him.
Luka is older than everyone else. Till knows this. The staff know this. Everyone in their class knows this. With his slight build and the tentative way he moves, he gives the impression of someone much younger, but then he opens that pretty little mouth and insults you five different ways without realising how rude he's being. That's what he's like. Till has come to the conclusion that it's some maddening combination of his intelligence and mental age.
Doesn't matter. His breathing is erratic, every inhale catching in his chest, and it's getting on Till's nerves. He works through the chords a second time, then a third, until Luka heaves a great and long-suffering sigh.
"That's wrong," he observes, jabbing at the holographic frets with a blue-tinged finger, "It's a G, not a B minor."
Till ignores him, giving the chords an experimental stab that makes the other boy grimace.
"Stop that. For once I'd like to get through the day without a trip to the medical bay."
There's something in the way he says it - the indication that his body is failing him faster than anyone wants to admit, or the fact that there is genuine annoyance in that clipped voice - that makes Till falter.
It shouldn't. It really, really shouldn't. Luka is worse than Ivan, who's acing almost every class and steals his sketchbooks for a laugh. He deserves very little sympathy, least of all from a problem child like him.
Besides, Luka wouldn't care for it. He scarcely seems to care for Mizi and Sua most days. Mizi, who is friendly and well-liked, Sua, who remains her shadow. Till used to envy Luka, not for his skill but for the ease in which he could talk to them. The other children had given them both a wide berth - still do, in fact - but Mizi had seen Luka, small for his age, eerily gaunt, and decided they were to be friends.
In all their time in the garden, Luka has had exactly one outburst. He'd shouted at this other boy, clutching at Mizi's arm, hurling tearful insults, as if he was terrified of her leaving him. His voice had grown whiny and plaintive, rising higher and higher until the kid surrendered, tired of trying to reason with him.
Till hears Luka shifting beside him, feels the gentle weight of his chin against his shoulders as he peers at his hastily-scribbled notes.
"Did you even write it down? I don't know why I bothered."
"Kiyekirai ke," Till mutters, and Luka just smiles, saccharine-sweet.
"Is this how you treat everyone who tries to help you?" he sneers, "No wonder you're always collared. Don't they tell you to be obedient?"
A part of Till seems to snap at that.
He shoves the older boy away, palm connecting with the soft part of his cheek, the hard bone beneath, and he's not even pushing that hard, but Luka topples over.
He lies still for a moment, blinking in the sudden sunlight, before Till grabs at his shirt. Luka swats at him like he's a minor pest, and Till kicks him in the shin when he tries to stand, and then they're actually fighting.
It's not like his scraps with Ivan, who laughs at every blow and helps Till up afterwards. Luka is near-silent and most of his strikes don't hurt at all. He struggles, kicks at Till's legs, his stomach, grabs his hair and pulls, but it's clear this is not a fight that he can win.
Luka isn't strong. He is small and scrawny where he is supposed to be willowy, angular, and he's really quite short for his age. But he lets Till miss half his punches, sees him hesitate on the others. He smiles slightly.
Till becomes a wild thing, hitting grass, roots, everything but the target of his blind anger. He's got Luka pinned beneath him, shirt bunched in his fists, thrashing, flailing. He pummels his chest, tries very hard to escape Till's hold, collar flashing ruby-red, but it's easy to forget that Luka is smaller, and weaker, and Till's fed up of being chained-up, locked away, when Luka has it so easy. He's not an angry person. He's scared of what will happen if he truly hurts Luka, and what will become of him if he does.
Fights between pet-humans are no rare thing. Often they equal nothing more than a loss of privileges and a miserable trip to medical, staff clucking at them all the while. Luka does not get into fights.
The thing is, Luka's condition, the plans and protocols in place for his emergencies, they all mean hell for someone like Till. He's already on thin ice, and Luka - Luka the masterpiece, Luka the star, Luka the brilliant, unshakeable kodenka - is far too precious to be broken. He does not want to hurt him badly.
His worst fight with Ivan ended with matching bruises, a nasty black eye, and a split lip. Maybe a bloody nose if he'd been hit in the right places.
Eventually Luka wrenches his arms free, brings them up to protect his face. His golden eyes are wide, shocked, but there is no fear in them. Not exactly.
He reaches up, corpse-cold fingers striking Till's cheek. Till grabs his other arm, pulls him forwards. He attempts to wriggle free, lurching backwards, until Till tugs on his wrist and there is a resounding crack.
Till jerks away as if burned. Luka blinks, slow and disbelieving.
"Oh," he says, voice mild, almost surprised.
Till stammers something that sounds vaguely like an apology, backing away slowly.
"Kiye ke," Luka hisses, "It's fine. It's happened before. They'll come running in a minute."
He's not wrong. There's a flurry of frantic activity, and then a member of staff is dashing over, scooping Luka up and rabbiting away in rapid segyeinko.
"Shit," Till says into the silence, over and over, feeling the childish urge to cry.
He does not see Luka for the rest of the day. He is not in class the next, either, not even during lunch. Despite his diet, Luka never misses a meal. Today's fare might have been grey and tasteless, but even that never seems to bother him. It's weird, not being able to see those golden curls from across the room.
"Till," Mizi implores, plonking her tray on the table and sliding into the seat beside his, "Could you do me a favour and drop by Luka's room for me?"
Till freezes with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He feels himself burning, from the tips of his ears to the skin of his neck. Mizi, asking him a favour? Guilty or not Till can't just turn her down, not when he seems to be getting off scot-free.
"Uh," he says stupidly, the words falling like rocks, "Okay, sure."
Mizi thrusts some package into his arms - might be a bundle of food, or homework, or something he left with her - and laughs, lips stretched into a wide, grateful grin. It's the prettiest thing Till has ever seen, like one of those angels in the old religious books.
Still, there's been something off about Mizi lately. Something fragile and tense and probably none of his business whatsoever. It might help, him doing this for her. Surely it will.
"I don't want to go down there myself," she says softly, shyly, "His room's right across from this one boy, and I really don't want to go near him on my own."
Till considers doing the brave thing, offering to go with her, then changes his mind. Maybe it'd be nice, to owe something to Mizi rather than Ivan. Ivan, who looks at him with eyes mild as anything as he reminds Till of his debts for the umpteenth time.
So, before the other kids barrel out of the canteen, Till takes the bundle and makes the trek down to the boys' quarters. He scans himself in like he always does, takes a right instead of a left and winces when his bare feet resound on the smooth white tiles. Always the same architecture around here. Luka must hate the fluorescent lighting.
It's not difficult to tell which room is Luka's. It's the only one presently occupied.
The door opens without ceremony. (It wasn't even locked. Shouldn't all the doors lock?) Luka hardly looks up.
His bedroom is a dismal place for someone who has everything he could ever want. The lights are blinding, bright and clinical, and it appears as though he has no personal effects. It's possible he's got everything of worth kept safe elsewhere - Till himself has this sketchbook stashed in a desk drawer in his guardian's house, well away from prying eyes, stuffed full of sketches he wants no one else to see. Mostly Mizi, and Ivan (shut up, it's not like that), and half-remembered faces.
Luka is settled on a heap of pillows, surveying him with a languid sort of boredom. The effort of remaining upright and hiding his fatigue must be costing him, but Till does not comment on it. His wrist is splinted, though not visibly damaged.
"I didn't tell them it was you," he mutters, his voice weak, thready, "I didn't think it was particularly worth the trouble. But it would have been nice to listen to your guardian grovelling to my father over the phone. Even Urak doesn't like to cross him, see?"
Till takes a moment to place Luka's words. His segyeinko's far too good, and either way he'd forgotten that Luka calls his owner his father, so ki ploye is not a phrase familiar to him.
"Thanks," he replies, surprised by the gratitude in his own voice, "I didn't mean to... Mizi brought this for you."
Luka briefly eyes the item clutched in Till's hands, then nods in the direction of a small side-table. "Leave it there. It's probably her part of that song we're working on."
Till does so, nearly knocking this little toy cube off in the process, and shoots Luka a curious glance. "I thought I'd broken something," he admits, unable to meet that probing gaze. Dull as the expression is, Luka forever looks as if he is dissecting him, picking him apart to understand him better.
"Oh, no, it's only a sprain. But I wouldn't have been surprised if you had. I seem to break rather easily."
Briefly his hand twitches towards his arm as if recalling some phantom pain, before the moment passes and he relaxes against the cushions. "I'm sorry you got sent down here. Father insisted I keep to the usual regimen, so I'm not at my best."
Till hears the tremor in his voice. His best. When he's recently been injured and, on top of that, already unwell. Till thought the personalised training was at no great cost to their health: for him the testing involves little more than plugging his brain into a machine and letting him play guitar for half an hour. Mizi dances, Sua sings, and Ivan's been getting supplementary image-making for years. What the hell could they possibly do for Luka, pristine and perfect Luka?
Till considers the older boy for a moment. He sits hunched over, swamped by his bedclothes, the collar at his neck flitting between green and amber. He's hurting and refusing to show it, because of course he is. "Hey," Till blurts suddenly, "If it'll distract you, we could talk about… I don't know. The song?"
"What, after you played it like that?" Luka says, laughing, but there's no real malice to it, "I've thought of a title for it. Kyi ojiye."
"Yeah? What's that mean? Didn't Mizi say your segyeinko's ten times better than anyone else's?"
"So she did. I'll tell you later," Luka murmurs, almost sleepily, "It's some of the first segyeinko I ever learnt, ojiye. Even before I knew to call my father my father."
His voice droops, peters out as his eyes close.
Till kicks the foot of the bed. "Are you asleep? Are you seriously asleep?"
He receives no response. Luka looks delicate in sleep, all long lashes and elegant angles. Also alarmingly thin for someone who eats like he'll never see food again. Till sighs. He's done Mizi's job for her. He doesn't really need to stay, not when he's the one who hurt Luka in the first place.
And yet Luka didn't tell a soul, decided to save Till's skin because somehow he knew how harshly they'd treat him.
Till groans, makes a big palaver of getting a decent chair from the corridor and his sketchpad from his room, and like an idiot decides to sit beside Luka until he either wakes up or the staff kick him out.
Mizi, when she comes by an hour later, has the sense not to disturb them. She prods Till in the shoulder and - for once - he doesn't blush, doesn't stammer out a greeting when he notices her. Just shoves her away with an ink-stained hand like he would Ivan, or any other kid who dares to distract him.
She creeps away in peals of silent laughter, and decides to torment them with the knowledge later.
Prickly as Till is, it's kind of sweet to see him trying to make amends.