Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Years have passed since Till joined the resistance. One since they rescued Luka from the aliens. Ten years ago, he would have hesitated to save him. That man who had delighted in manipulating the love of his childhood, his family. Who had taken pleasure in playing with him, mocking the trauma that had been Ivan’s deat-… sacrifice. But years bring perspective. Maturity. And Till had earned it the hard way. He found it in every mission, in every farewell, and most of all, upon discovering Hyuna’s journal. Through it, he began to understand — not completely, but at least in part — the prince who now locks himself away in the human facilities like a trapped ghost.

These last years have granted him such overwhelming clarity that sometimes hating becomes nearly impossible. Not completely. Not those who did whatever they had to in order to survive. If Till has learned anything, it’s that the true blame never rested on them. It was always the Segyein.

Hyuna’s journal is filled with things Till sometimes wishes he hadn’t read. Its contents were private, sacred even. But when he found it, forgotten among old papers, curiosity overcame him. Luka, described with tenderness, with understanding, was so different from the Luka he had known. For a moment, Till doubted. But time, coexistence, shared meals — albeit silent ones — gestures, glances, the way Luka withdrew into himself… showed him another version. One closer to the one from the journal.

He could see in him that childlike glow. That innocence cut short. Someone who never had a childhood. Who never learned how to grow. Who wore a cruel mask as a means of survival. And in that, Till saw Ivan. Accepting Luka was not difficult. The hard part was enduring the indifference: four months without a single word, completely ignored. But even that Till understood. That first night, he had honestly believed he would find Luka dead in his room. He had feared that finally having privacy would be the trigger. But it wasn’t. Luka stayed alive. And Till chose to stay too.

He divided his time between missions with Issac and Dewey, and the rescued children — especially Haru, his favorite: an exact blend of the people he loved most. He also continued searching for Mizi. Although, deep down, something told him she didn’t want to be found. Till has no intention of giving up, but if that feeling is true, it would certainly explain why he still hasn’t been able to find her.

Still, something else has been stirring within him.

He suspects it began the moment he accepted his feelings for Ivan. Perhaps it wasn’t just about accepting Ivan, but opening himself to the possibility of loving another man. Since then, Till has started noticing things that previously went unseen: the scars across Issac’s torso after a mission, the way Dewey squints when he laughs too hard… Small things. Things that, suddenly, seem beautiful.

Opening that part of himself changed the way he sees. The way he feels.

And that’s why, reading about Luka through Hyuna’s eyes, Till finds himself sighing over a man he’s never truly met. Because the Luka she describes is not the one he sees every day. That cheerful, passionate Luka, who sang love songs, who claimed what was his with innocent stubbornness — that Luka no longer exists. Or maybe, he never did for anyone but her.

The Luka Till knows throws sharp comments and slams the door in his face.

But at night, with the journal in his hands, Till closes his eyes. He tries to remember Luka’s features. Tries to imagine a smile on that face — even if only borrowed. And so, he sits at his desk, with a blank sheet and a pencil in hand, and spends the entire night drawing him.

Chapter Text

As the days passed, Luka slowly began to open up. Not with words or obvious gestures, but through the subtle ways his presence stopped feeling foreign. He didn’t join missions or offer advice, but sometimes he stayed behind to look after the children, silent and watchful. Or he’d attend karaoke nights, always seated in a quiet corner next to Till. He didn’t sing. He didn’t speak. He just listened, eyes downcast, hands folded in his lap.

Till suspected it was because, out of everyone, he was the only familiar face. Isaac and Dewey kept their distance from the blond, or rather, treated him with such pointed neutrality that it verged on disdain. Till had noticed it from the beginning. The source of that tension wasn’t hard to guess: Hyuna. And especially the unrequited love Isaac clearly held for her. Seeing Luka—everything he represented—had to be unbearable.

One of those nights, Till had volunteered to watch the children. Haru, as usual, had curled up in his lap, pencil in hand, his pink hair brushing against Till’s chest as he tried to imitate a drawing he barely understood. Till guided him with patience, correcting just enough to help without taking away the joy of artistic expression.

The door opened softly.

He wouldn’t have noticed if not for the way his senses had sharpened since the day he was shot. Luka entered like a ghost. His white clothes didn’t help the resemblance. He walked with measured, cautious steps, like someone afraid to interrupt. He glanced sideways at Tirian—Hyuna’s clone—and Till wasn’t surprised. Luka always watched him. From afar. As if unsure what to do with a child who carried in his blood half of the person who had once been his whole world.

But that night was different.

Luka sat on the floor, near. Not close enough to spark conversation, but not far enough to feign indifference.

Till didn’t expect him to speak. So when his voice did come, it took him by surprise.

"Do you think she would’ve cared for him?"

The question hovered between them, uncertain. Till took a few seconds to understand what he meant. But then he saw Luka’s gaze fixed on Tirian, soft and almost mournful, and he understood.

He didn’t know what to say.

Hyuna was mostly a stranger to him. He knew her only through the pages of her journal—a deeply intimate testament that spoke more of Luka and her brother than of herself. And yet, something in his chest urged him to answer. Not out of obligation, but because silence might feel like rejection. And Luka had already known too much of that.

"I can’t imagine her resenting a child for simply existing," he said, and he meant it.

He remembered the sweetness in her words, her constant tenderness, the way she continued to love even when the world was crumbling. He had no doubt: Hyuna would have loved Tirian with quiet devotion. Even more so knowing that a part of Luka—still innocent—lived within him.

Luka said nothing. But Till felt his gaze. He offered him a smile, soft and open, like one meant for a lost child.

Luka didn’t return it. But he didn’t look away either. And that was enough.

Till didn’t know how much time passed after that. He only came back to himself when Haru pinched him, frustrated that his drawing tutor had stopped paying attention.

Somewhere in the calm of that afternoon, Till felt the urge to send Haru back to the others and pull that blond prince into his lap. He wanted to care for him. To comfort him. To make sure he knew he wasn’t alone. That Till understood. That he had lived it too. That he knew what it was to burn quietly from the inside, to be silenced, forced into submission. Not that it had ever truly worked on Till—but he didn’t judge Luka for the methods he used to survive.

And in the middle of that storm of thoughts, he remembered Luka was forty years old.

The idea made him smile. Not just because he didn’t look it—neither physically nor emotionally—but because he acted like someone much younger. More fragile.

Sometimes, Till dreamed of a different life. A world where things had not gone so horribly wrong. Where strange devices filled their hands, where uniforms made them all the same. Where Mizi, Sua, Ivan and he lived like the family they were meant to be. In those dreams, Ivan and he loved freely. And the greatest tragedy was simply being human.

But lately, those dreams brought him guilt.

Because that world would’ve never let him meet the Luka sitting beside him. He wouldn’t have heard that quiet hum. He wouldn’t have seen the way Luka moved with unconscious grace through the resistance’s corridors. Wouldn’t have noticed how his clothes hung loose on his frame, or how those golden strands always fell perfectly across his eyes.

And that made him feel selfish.

Because that perfect life… it would have been everything Luka deserved. Maybe he would’ve married Hyuna. Maybe Till would have ended up with Ivan. But here, in this broken reality, Till no longer longed for that version of the world.

All he wanted now was to be the reason Luka started looking at life again.

Or at the very least, for Luka to look at him.

Chapter Text

That same night, Till had taken longer than usual to go to bed. He had wanted to make sure the whole facility was secure, that silence reigned in every corner. The night was darker than usual, like it had been a long time since he had the chance to notice. It was on nights like this when he thought of Ivan.

Those eyes he once believed were mocking, he now understood for what they were: pure fascination. It gave him peace to think of him, of his love. To know that, somehow, someone special was watching over him from somewhere. Till felt at peace with his story alongside Ivan. He could even imagine him up there, sharing space with Sua, arguing like they always did, and the thought made him smile.

But it was also on nights like this when he thought of Mizi. Wondering if she was safe. If she had somewhere to protect herself from the cold. The idea that she didn’t tore his heart apart. Till wished for it with all his heart: that she was alive, that she was well.

He hadn’t seen Luka since lunch. Lately, Till enjoyed serving him generous portions of food. Seeing his face light up with pure joy when he ate was a simple, honest pleasure. In those weeks, his body had slowly started to regain weight. But that afternoon, Luka had decided to lock himself in his room, ignoring Isaac’s complaints, who insisted he needed to contribute to the resistance.

Till, as always, stepped in. He reminded them—over and over—that Luka had spent thirty-nine years of his life being tortured in ways none of them could even imagine. That if he could never live a “normal” life, it didn’t matter. He would take care of him. Because he felt it that way. Not as a duty, but as something deeper, almost instinctive. Like when he took care of the children. Luka, in many ways, awoke in him the same protective instinct.

When he had made sure all the children were asleep, Till finally headed to his room. But not without first stopping in front of Luka’s door, where he stood for a few minutes in silence, unmoving. Just staring.

He wasn’t brave. He didn’t knock. He didn’t open. He just turned on his heels and kept walking.

And then he saw him.

Luka was in his bed.

Till stifled a curse. His hand reached for the weapon at his waist out of pure reflex, but when he recognized him, he relaxed. The blond was sleeping peacefully, curled up in the sheets. Till didn’t know how long he had been there. Had he been there all day waiting? Had he been looking for him? The thought that Luka might have been there for hours, in silence, not knowing if he would come back, made his chest ache.

He said nothing.

He simply changed into more comfortable clothes, slid in beside him, and wrapped his arms slowly around his waist. Carefully. Like holding something fragile. With his nose buried in those soft, golden curls, Till let sleep take him.

He woke up to a knock on the door.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains, making him squint. He narrowed his eyes and, at the same time, realization hit: he had slept past noon. And there was a weight on his chest.

Luka.

The memory of the night before came rushing back. The blond’s body was completely sprawled over his, breathing peacefully. Till felt something damp on his shirt. Luka had been drooling on him. He was about to smile, touched by the thought.

But another knock on the door pulled him back to the present.

Till cursed under his breath. He’d have to move Luka, wake him up if he wanted to avoid someone walking in and finding them like this: vulnerable, tangled together, dreaming of a peace that didn’t belong to them. But a part of him—a tired, human part—just wanted to stay there. To hold Luka tighter and tell the world to go to hell for one more day.

Just one more.

Later that day, Dewey, Isaac, and the others noticed.

Not because Till was doing anything unusual, but because of what Luka was doing.

Till was sitting at the table, sketchbook in hand, focused on a new drawing. In front of him, the world seemed to fade away. And pressed against his side was Luka. Not “near,” not “keeping him company”: pressed. Literally leaning against the younger man’s shoulder, as if the concept of personal space didn’t exist.

What was strange was that Till didn’t seem uncomfortable. On the contrary: his posture was calm, his shoulders relaxed, and there was even the faint curve of a smile on his lips, as if the blond’s presence felt comfortable. Familiar. Welcome.

The others exchanged discreet glances. No one quite understood what new dynamic they were witnessing. Luka kept the sleeve of his shirt between his teeth, watching every stroke of Till’s pencil as if he were witnessing something sacred. There was a pleased glint in his eyes every time he recognized himself in one of the sketches; and, to everyone’s surprise, most of them were of him.

When dinner time came, their curiosity grew even more. Till ate, calmly, unhurried. And Luka, sitting beside him, didn’t touch his food. He didn’t even look away. He watched him with an almost hypnotic intensity, as if studying every movement of his hands, every change in his breathing.

Till didn’t seem bothered. He didn’t tease him, didn’t push him away, didn’t comment on it. He simply, when he finished his plate, looked up at Luka, pointed at his, and with a simple gesture, told him to start eating.

Luka obeyed without hesitation. He picked up his utensils and began to eat with a quiet enthusiasm, as if that small gesture from Till—that approval, that invitation—was a prize far more valuable than the food itself.

And while Luka chewed, the question still hung in the air, invisible but insistent:

What was happening between them?

What the others didn’t know was that, upon waking up that day in Till’s arms, Luka had felt something he hadn’t in a long time: accepted. Welcome. Not like a temporary guest, not like someone tolerated out of obligation, but as part of something. As if his presence had a place.

That warm, silent moment had been enough for something inside him to loosen. Till hadn’t asked for explanations. He hadn’t pushed him away. He hadn’t judged him for barging into his room. He had simply held him and stayed there, as if there was nothing strange about sharing a bed, about letting time pass without a word.

And it was there, in the warmth of that body and the steady heartbeat beneath his ear, that Luka decided he could be himself with Till. Drop the mask. Show the parts he usually hid, the most vulnerable ones, without fear they would be used against him.

That day, without realizing it, he also welcomed something else: a new fascination. An interest he couldn’t quite explain, but that grew every time Till looked at him, every time he defended him, every time his hands silently traced his face in a sketchbook.

It was a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. And Luka, for the first time in a long while, didn’t want to push it away.

Chapter Text

The following days carried a tension that was barely concealed. Not between Till and Luka, but between them and the others.

Dewey noticed everything, though he rarely spoke. His glances, however, were sharp, stabbing like knives each time Luka drew too close to Till, each time he was found waiting outside a meeting for him, or trailing behind him down the halls with that silent obedience that felt unnatural on him.

Isaac, on the other hand, made no effort to hide his disgust.

“Are you really going to keep treating him like one of the children?” he snapped one night, when only the two of them were left in the armory, checking weapons. His tone was dry, but rage showed in the tremor of his hands. “That man is no child. We saw him on that stage. We know what he’s capable of, he was practically one of them”. The Segyein.

Till didn’t lift his eyes. He continued adjusting the magazine of his rifle, patient and steady.

“The man you saw on that stage wasn’t him. He was surviving.”

“And what the hell do you know?” Isaac slammed his palm against the table, sending metal parts clattering. “Did you know Hyuna better than I did? Did you hear her cry after he left her shattered? Because I did! I heard her. I was there when she forced herself to smile, to sing as if nothing was wrong, just to keep us going. I saw him up there on that stage, again and again, he was enjoying himself.”

Hyuna’s name dropped between them like a stone into a frozen lake. Till finally stopped, lifting his eyes at last. Isaac stared back, his gaze burning with fury, but beneath it was something deeper: grief.

“She never…” His voice broke slightly. “She never wanted to look at anyone else. And still, she chose him. She defended him. And she died with his name on her lips, in his arms. Sh—”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Till closed the rifle with a sharp click.

“Hyuna loved him because she understood him,” he said, without softness but without reproach either. “She protected him because she knew he was the result of the cruelty of those monsters. Luka doesn’t understand things the way we do, so blaming him is absurd. If you can’t accept that, that’s your problem, not mine.”

Isaac glared at him, lips pressed tight, refusing to respond. And Till knew, in that instant, that nothing he said would ever change that resentment.

What did surprise him was what happened next: Luka appeared at the door. His expression was empty. His gaze locked on Till, never once shifting toward Isaac, never even registering the hatred in his eyes.

“You’re tired,” he murmured, barely audible. He walked toward him with measured, almost ceremonial steps, stopping right at his side, staring without blinking. “You don’t need to stay here.”

Till glanced at him sideways. Luka kept his hands relaxed at his sides, but in his eyes there was an unease Till couldn’t name. The longer he looked, the more he lost himself in it… and the more he wanted to follow that siren.

Isaac straightened, his anger so raw it seemed about to burst.

“See?” he spat, unable to hold back. “Like a dog. He follows you everywhere. That’s not loyalty, it’s manipulation. Don’t you dare look at him like he’s innocent.”

Luka didn’t even blink. He didn’t turn his head. To him, Isaac didn’t exist. Dewey, in the corner, watched with a furrowed brow, trying to unravel what lay behind that coldness.

“Till,” Luka repeated, as if nothing else mattered. His voice was flat, almost robotic, but in his eyes there was something only Till seemed able to notice. “Let me take you with me. You need to rest.”

The air grew heavy, cutting. Luka’s indifference toward the others wasn’t silence, it was a statement. A silent erasure of what Hyuna had once meant.

Now, there was only Till. And that truth struck like a sudden chill down the spine.

But Till was already hopelessly lost in this being, so, ignoring Isaac’s shouting, he decided to follow Luka down the hallway. In silence, they slipped into their nightly routine: changing into comfortable clothes, and finally lying down together. Usually, Luka would end up resting on Till’s chest, but this time, on one of those rare occasions, it was Till who sought comfort in the other’s arms.

“They think you enjoyed killing them,” Till murmured, more like a thought that slipped out than an accusation.

“I did,” Luka replied without hesitation.

A silence followed, one that was hard to define, somewhere between tense and simply uncomfortable. Till didn’t know what to say, how to go on, but Luka gave him no chance to fill the void.

“I enjoyed having control of the situation,” Luka continued, his voice low, almost calm. “For once, I was the one deciding what to do, what happened to someone else. No more silence. No more stillness. I could move across the stage, I could sing as loud or as soft as I wanted… because I was the best.”

Till lifted his face slightly, searching, but Luka’s eyes weren’t on him. They were fixed on some invisible point in the darkness of the room.

“They never meant anything to me,” he added, with a coldness that left no space for doubt. “I couldn’t tell you their names. Even after spending hours watching their performances to uncover their weaknesses, once I won, they stopped existing for me.”

The words cut through Till like a knife. He understood, and at the same time, he didn’t want to. It wasn’t cruelty he saw in Luka, but something else: a foreign logic, a way of perceiving the world that no one had ever tried to mend.

And still, in the middle of that terrible confession, Luka clung to him with the same need as a drowning man grasping driftwood.

Till closed his eyes. He could feel Luka’s pulse, steady, unshaken. A man who spoke of death with the same ease others used to describe a childhood memory. And yet, it was in those arms that Till had chosen to rest.

“Then… what am I to you?” he asked, barely a whisper, afraid of the answer.

Luka blinked slowly, as if weighing whether the question even deserved an answer. His voice, when it came, was stripped of any hesitation.

“You’re the only one I couldn’t erase” He tilted his head, eyes narrowed, as though dissecting him with every word. “Everyone else was disposable: pieces to be broken, obstacles to study and erase. And you were too. But you didn’t fall. You survived. When I saw you again after all those years, I felt defeated, furious. Now… it’s different”.

He tapped his temple with two fingers, then pressed his palm against Till’s chest.

“You live here. And here. That makes you dangerous. But it also makes you mine”.

The words landed heavy, leaving no room for misinterpretation. For Luka, it wasn’t romance, nor devotion, it was possession, sharpened into something almost cruel. Yet Till knew that, to Luka, there wasn’t really a line between possession, romance, and devotion. He almost pitied Hyuna. Luka had learned nothing.

Till didn’t step back. Luka’s words still hung heavy in the air, sharp and suffocating, and yet there was something in that threat dressed as confession that kept him rooted in place.

Luka tilted his head slowly, as if savoring the invisible resistance between them. His hand, still pressed against Till’s chest, slid up to his neck, gripping him with a firmness that allowed no refusal.

The kiss came without softness, without tenderness: a collision of will and claim. There was no room to breathe, no space to hesitate; Luka took him as if he had always belonged to him.

But Luka forgot, or simply didn’t care, that Till was now stronger, taller. Without effort, he lifted him, holding the smaller blond’s legs around his waist. Luka looked at him in surprise, and yet a faint smile followed.

“You’re so beautiful…” Till whispered, brushing his lips against his “You must be cursed, because I feel weak before you, before your will. You make my head ache, and with just one look from you, I fall apart. I want to kiss every part of your body… worship you, take care of you.”

Luka tilted his head slightly, his smile sharpening into something almost dangerous.

“Then… what are you waiting for?”