Work Text:
The lights of the evening Seoul cityscape pierce through the tinted windows of Ivan's car as he drives through the highway at a leisurely pace, bathing him in reds and whites. He's humming softly to himself, letting the rich timbre of his voice fill the empty spaces of sound within the car, where, at any other time, soft conversation would have taken its place.
It's relaxing. Calm. There aren't too many people on the road at this late of an hour, so Ivan can afford to let his eyes slip, for the barest second, to the rearview mirror, finding the figure sitting in his backseat. Luka is a vision, even like this—clad in a black coat that Ivan suspects is one of his, based on how oversized it is, his blonde hair disheveled from fingers running through the soft strands, his long eyelashes fluttering every few seconds as he struggles not to fall asleep on the way home from filming Round 7 for Alien Stage.
Luka looks human, like this, and that is something that Ivan knows better than perhaps anyone else in the world. Luka, unburdened by camera flashes and the thought of his image, letting himself show every single emotion that passes through his mind. Luka, unable to move after dance practice, laying starfished on the practice room's floor as he orders Ivan to hand him his water bottle. Luka, cuddled up to Ivan on the nights when the exhaustion hit its peak, sneaking into the neighboring room at midnight because no one else could possibly know that Luka—the ace, the ice prince, the it boy, or whatever other host of titles they called him—broke the same way everyone else did.
It gives Ivan pause.
"Hyung," he says, soft in the way reserved only for Luka, delicate and fading away at the edges as though he were afraid that saying the word any more concretely would damage the very fabric of their reality. "It's still a while away from the dorms. You can sleep if you're tired."
Luka lets out an answering grumble, something that Ivan interprets as "I'm not tired," as he shuffles across the backseat to grab the Till-inspired pillow that he'd given Ivan on his 19th birthday as a way to tease him about his pathetic little celebrity crush on their senior. It's soft, Ivan can attest to that much, and it's also Luka's favorite thing to cling onto whenever he rode in Ivan's car. Luka lets out another grunt, this time interpreted as "Worry about yourself."
"Tell that to me when your eyes aren't half-closed, hyungie," Ivan responds, watching as Luka makes himself comfortable, stretching out across the leather seats as he sends Ivan a reproachful look through the rearview mirror.
"My eyes aren't half-closed," Luka retorts, and he's right. His eyes are now fully closed, half his face buried into the Till pillow.
"Smartass," Ivan mutters, and the conversation fizzles out into silence as Luka quickly falls asleep.
Later, they will have to get up at 5 AM to prepare for another one of their group's schedules, running on a maximum of three hours of sleep and spite as they dance and sing on top of the stage. Later, they will argue over the details of their choreography, or how they should perform their songs, or something stupid like whether mint chocolate tastes like toothpaste or not, both far too stubborn to let the other person be right. Later, they will go back to work, and they will work, and they will keep working, and another year will pass just like that.
But for now, in the in-betweens, Ivan glances at Luka's sleeping form and, once more, begins humming, wishing nothing more than that the sound of his voice can help lull Luka into a sweet dream.