twenty five
Two in the morning rolled around quicker than I thought it would.
I laid in bed next to Luke, his breathing was fast, his heartbeat ricocheting against his ribcage and echoing up to my ear. I placed my hand on top of his torso, watching him suck in due to the coldness of my fingertips. Goosebumps raised on his soft skin everywhere my fingers went.
"When did you start writing?" He asked quietly in the darkness of his hotel room.
I've never heard Luke quiet. He's loud, he's angry. He's never calm, he's never in one place. Seeing him laying so carefully next to me, he seemed so fragile. It felt as though a strong breeze could knock him over. I never could imagine Luke as so vulnerable, but looking at his peaceful body laying next to mine all I pair with him is fragile.
"I don't know," I answered truthfully, "it just happened. My parents told me I was something special when it came to writing, but it never meant much to me."
"Why?"
"I'm an only child, they're supposed to coddle me and bullshit my self-esteem."
I could feel the smallest of a laugh leave Luke's lungs. I didn't hear it, only felt it. I wrapped my arm further around him, holding him closely.
He didn't wrap his arm around me. One arm laid across an extra pillow, the other was behind his head, keeping him perched up. Luke didn't like touching like this, I knew me resting my heavy body upon his chest was bothering him but I was too content with the moment to move.
"How'd you start working for that music magazine?"
"Connections."
"Who?"
"I had a friend, he was a photographer—the one you met a few weeks ago, Ashton. He worked for them and knew they needed a writer. They hired me right below they blew up, suddenly becoming big. Everything happened so fast and now I'm here."
I went from sitting at desks for twelve hours to in Luke Hemmings' arms. Something didn't add up, I just couldn't figure it out.
"I know the feeling," he responded. Luke reached down, removing the hand from the back of his head. He played with the necklace on his neck, pulling at the small figure. "My parents didn't want me anywhere near fame, they didn't want me to be stalked and interrogated and hated and loved."
"Is it what you wanted?" I asked, trying not to pry. Him even saying the word family was a start to something new.
"Fuck yeah it's what I wanted, it's still what I want." Luke let the chain drop back down to his neck. He placed his hand on top of his rib, only inches away from the tip of my curved nose. He let out a sigh, "But, I want my family more."
"Did they seriously stop talking to you after becoming famous?"
Luke nodded slowly. "They didn't want to be apart of it. Isn't that funny? Most families are the opposite—they want all the fame, all the fortune. Mum and Dad just wanted to be left alone in the middle of fucking nowhere."
"That's their loss," I said. "You realize that, right?"
He shrugged, "I told myself that, everyone told me that. It doesn't feel like their loss." Luke reached up, I watched his hands move up to his eyes and wipe at his waterline. He wasn't able to stay still.
I've never imagined seeing someone like Luke break into tears over anything. He was the type to break a few bones and simply rub some dirt on it. Seeing him fidget and break wasn't something I ever wanted to see.
To watch him—one whom has always been so strong—have tears rolling across his high cheekbones was heartbreaking. There weren't enough metaphors to ever describe the true sadness that washed over my aching soul as I watched him hide the emotion he feels too strong.
He kept everything in that head of his, all locked up for him and only him. I suddenly understood what was in his mind: Pain.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—."
He started to sit up, causing me to roll off of him and back to the other side of the bed. Luke put his feet over the edge of the hotel bed, his back bent as he rested his elbows on his knees and his hands over his eyes. "I hate talking about them, I hate them," he said with a crack of his voice.
I wasn't sure what to say. Do I agree? Yeah, we all kind of hate our families at times. I had a strong feeling his hate was a different hate than my own. I get annoyed with my parents, we argue and disagree. I have a feeling his hate was more of a regret under-base.
He wanted them and they didn't want him. His money nor fame could ever get them back.
Luke turned around, his eyes a light red. "Don't write about this, any of this." He got up, finding his clothes off the hotel ground.
I watched his back flex as he pulled on his white button down once more, carelessly buttoning it as he slid on his boxers and skinny jeans.
Was he going to go back downstairs to the after party? Was he going to leave me already?
I guess I got my hopes up, I was hoping I truly meant something more than a bang. I knew that I wasn't, but I'm allowed to dream. There wouldn't be much to life without some type of dream.
Alex said that Luke doesn't have friends but part of me hoped I could change that. I wanted to change that. I want to be his friend, I want to care for him and I want him to know I care for him.
I thought he cared for me, too.
"What can I not write about?" I pulled the sheets closer to my body as I looked up at him, knowing my eyes, too, were glassing over.
"Any of tonight. We aren't in love, we don't fuck, my family problems aren't real." Luke slid his leather jacket over his body once more, wandering towards the mirror with the crooked golden frame to fix his hair.
I watched him wipe at his eyes and steady his own breath. I was amazed at how quick he got himself calm, he got himself presentable. There was a feeling in my gut that this wasn't the first time he cried about his family in the last seven days. I knew this wasn't the first time he had to stop himself from some form of mental attack.
"I'm your friend first, Luke, I'm not—."
"We aren't friends," he said, holding up his hands, "we aren't anything. You work for me, you don't even work for me. You work for that stupid magazine who put you on this stupid project. We have no connection."
"Luke—."
"No!" He yelled, his eyes tearing up once again. "None of this! You're a pathetic puppy dog that follows me around, that's all you will ever be! Okay?!" He turned around, metaphorical fumes over his head as he stormed out.
I was left alone in Luke's hotel room, and I hated the silence.
I was usually the one to like silence. I liked being lost in my own thoughts, it was where everything felt so free: An organized mess.
This silence I hated.
I got out of his hotel bed, pulling my skinny jeans and sweater messily back on my body. I leant over, folding over the sheets of his bed so that'd he come back to a made room. I slid on my shoes and looked over the room.
I headed to the bedside table and grabbed my phone, wallet, and laminate. I grabbed the pen and pad of paper the hotel kept, debating if I should leave him a note to come back to. Maybe something for him to know that I'm there for him, that I care for him greatly.
I put the paper down, leaving it blank.
He can come to me when he's ready to talk.
give me any thoughts you're having
