Starstruck (the Idea of Always)

Donderdag 20:57

(tw: panic attack, absentminded self-harm)

Lucas

It was dark in Lucas's room, except streaks of lamplight coming through his window, cutting across his walls, across the drawings of Jens. Lucas stood over his desk, the chair pushed to the side, his hands holding the edge, knuckles white. His breath caught in his throat, his heart thumping in his chest so hard he felt it in his fingertips, he felt it behind his closed eyes. He opened his eyes, looking directly at the blank screen under his head, his shoulders tense like he expected it to start buzzing, to get bad news.

Letting go of the desk, relaxing his hands but not his shoulders, he stepped back, stumbling as his head suddenly became too light, spinning. His hands balled into fists and came up to his shoulder, head, all the muscles in his body strained and painful, and his body contorted, one shoulder higher than the other, his face wincing, his knees buckling as he pushed his shoulders back, trying to push back what felt like a shiver that refused to come. His hands ran over the back of his head and the nape of his neck, pulling at his hair harshly, a soft whimper in his throat.

His head lifted, hands falling behind him with his elbows pointed to the ceiling, and his eyes scoured the room, searching for something to latch on to, something to hold on to, but he could barely see anything in the dark. After a few seconds of raking across the walls and floor, his eyes focused on a sketch of Jens in the center of his wall, the moonlight and lamplight just catching the corner of the paper enough that he could see it.

For a second, his breathing slowed, and his shoulders dropped. He stared at the drawing with wide eyes, his mouth agape as he panted. He remembered how it felt to hear Jens whisper to him, whisper a soft baby in his ear, to speak so softly Lucas could barely understand him, to hear Jens giggle and laugh as he teased him. He remembered how it felt have Jens's hands on him, his hands skating across his body, gripping his sides, his shirts, his hips, his thighs.

Lucas's shoulders shook in a violent and he crossed his arms across his chest, grabbing his shoulders and pulling hard, nearly losing his balance. His eyes stayed trained on Jens, and he began to notice every flaw he'd made in the portrait. The slope of his lower lash line wasn't quite right, and neither was his cupid's bow, or bridge of his nose. Lucas stared at it until it wasn't Jens anymore, until a stranger was staring at his from across the room.

And suddenly, Lucas's arms were reaching out, across the top of his desk, and ripping the drawing from the wall, the sound of the paper tearing at the tape interrupting the sound of Lucas's strained breathing. When the paper was balled up in his hand, his head jerked back up, in the direction of his wall covered in drawings and flowers.

He doesn't love you.

Lucas tore another drawing down.

He doesn't love you.

Another.

He doesn't love you because you left him.

A sob ripped through Lucas as he grabbed at the wall, several drawing coming off the wall in his fist, dead flowers falling to ground in pieces.

You left him, and you hurt him.

Soon, the wall was bare, and the drawings were dispersed across the floor, some torn, ripped, crumpled, wrinkled,

broken.

---

Lucas's back was hurting, curved over to his forehead was on his knees as he sat on the floor, hugging his legs to himself and leaning against his bed. He was tired. So tired.

And he hurt.

His face was sore from crying, his lips cracked, and his head was throbbing. There were dull pains in his legs, the sides of his thighs, and a pain in his hand that made it hard to move. When he looked at it he could see, even in the dark, that there were bruises blooming over his knuckles, a spot of blood shining.

"Shit," he breathed, looking up the wall in front of him, seeing a crack in it, a dent. He repeated himself, dropping his head to his knees again and running his hands through his hair. He winced as pain shot through his hand, and tears welled in his eyes again. He hated this.

He hated breaking things, hated hurting (even though there was a touch of satisfaction in the back of his head, a quiet thought that he deserved it). He hated having to tell his mother what had happened, hated seeing her cry. He hated being so tired.

He hated being alone.