Archive of Our Own

Calum looks down at his phone. 1:43 AM. 

The music’s too loud, not in the fun way, but in the way that makes your teeth hurt. It blares from the speakers, bouncing off the stained walls like it’s trying to rattle the house down. The bass punches his chest, syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat, except his feels uneven, like it’s skipping something.

A girl stumbles up to the DJ, some sophomore with glitter under her eyes and tequila on her breath, and leans in to make a request. The guy laughs and shakes his head, his little setup perched on a beer pong table. Calum watches the girl whine, her voice swallowed by the music. It’s annoying. Everything is kind of annoying tonight.

It’s a Wednesday. A shitty, meaningless, middle-of-the-week Wednesday, and Calum’s at a party thrown by his friend’s friend’s friend, or whatever. Nathan had kicked open his bedroom door hours ago and insisted they were going out. Calum threw a pillow at him. Told him to fuck off. Nathan just laughed and left the room like he’d already won. Which, apparently, he had.

So now it’s almost 2 AM and Calum’s drunk, but not enough. Not nearly. He could get more fucked up. Wants to. Needs to, maybe. This week has sucked. He lost his AirPods. He has a paper due Friday. He’s in love with someone who isn’t here.

He drifts toward Nathan, who’s mid-conversation with a girl who’s clearly into him. Calum barely glances at her.

“Dude,” he says, too loud, voice flat.

Nathan glances back, eyebrows flicking upward in a silent what? Calum rolls his eyes and does a lazy smoking gesture, already turning toward the door. 

“Ah,” Nathan nods, catching on. “Do you smoke?” he asks the girl beside him. Ever the golden retriever. Calum resists the urge to roll his eyes again.

The girl shakes her head. Nathan kisses her cheek, watches as she walks away, and then turns to Calum. “Let me just find Cate and we can go.”

Calum groans, deep and theatrical. Cate. Fucking Cate. He almost forgot about her. Cate is a walking hazard, drunk and slippery. Last time they went out, she vanished and turned up curled beside a homeless lady, sharing fries and taking about how men “suck shit”. Tonight, she could be anywhere. And this house is huge in that frat-house way, every hallway the same shade of beer-sticky beige. Finding her could take the rest of the night.

He’s in that particular kind of drunk where everything is too loud and his body is vibrating with impatience. He just wants quiet. A joint. Maybe someone to press their mouth to the inside of his wrist and tell him he’s not crazy. He wants Luke. God, he wants Luke so bad it tastes like salt in the back of his throat. Luke, who’s not here. Luke, who never comes to things like this. Luke, who smells like mint and warm laundry and looks at Calum like he’s something worth fixing.

Calum digs the heel of his palm into his eye socket. “Man, you guys are gonna give me a headache.”

Nathan smirks and slaps his car keys against Calum’s chest. “Go wait in the car. We’ll meet you there.”

Deal. Calum pockets the keys and slips through the crowd like he’s trying not to touch the night too hard.

Outside, it’s cold in that middle-of-June, post-sweat kind of way. The kind you’re grateful for after hours under a sun that makes your skin feel like it could peel off. The air smells like cut grass and smoke and someone’s perfume, too sweet and too much. People scatter the lawn, clutching solo cups, hunched on the curb, giggling on the roof. Laughter crackles through the dark. A group passes a cigarette between them, ember bright in the dark. 

Calum keeps walking, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to keep his thoughts from leaking out.

The farther he gets from the house, the more the noise fades, replaced by the hum of streetlights and the rush of blood in his ears. The alcohol still prickles under his skin, and the spot where his phone is wedged in his back pocket burns. Not physically. Just… there. Heavy. Like it’s daring him. He could call Luke. Just press the name. Just say: “I miss you” or “I’m at some stupid party with stupid people and I’m wearing someone else’s hoodie and I feel like I’m bleeding out of my own head.” 

He grits his teeth. Not now. Not yet. Maybe when he’s high and his brain stops doing this thing where it tries to hurt him.

Nathan’s car is parked at the very end of the street, tucked under a tree with one dead branch that scratches against the roof when the wind moves. Calum climbs in through the passenger door, lets it thud shut behind him. First thing he does is crack the window to let the night air spill in. Cold. Clean. He exhales hard. Taps his fingers against his thighs. Chews a fingernail until the skin splits and blood beads up. Watches it pool. Doesn’t wipe it away. 

Across the street, a group of girls stumble by, heels clicking on asphalt. One of them falls. Calum half-moves, almost opens the door, but she’s laughing before he can. Her friends yank her up by the elbows and everything is fine again. Fine and loud and meaningless. 

The silence in the car feels sharp. Too still in all the wrong ways.

He flips open the center console. Roots through Nathan’s crap. Gum wrappers. A capless pen. A library card with Nathan’s shitty ID photo. He snorts. Finds an old Deftones CD wedged in the side pocket. He shoves it in. Leans back. Closes his eyes. Tries to let the guitar line fill that aching, stupid space behind his ribs where Luke’s name keeps echoing.

It doesn’t work. Nothing works. Luke is there anyway, mint and warm laundry and too much. Calum doesn’t mean to think about him. Doesn’t mean to feel him under his skin like this.

Honestly, the whole reason he came out tonight was to forget. To shut his brain off. Drown it. Smother it. But the second you try to bury something, it grows teeth. Gnaws its way back up like it owns you. And maybe Luke does. Owns him, in the most real, ruinous way. Even when he’s not here. Especially then.

Calum’s gotten good at shoving him down, turning the volume up, sealing all mental doors, pretending he’s fine. But Luke’s not a thought. Luke’s a breach. A rupture. A flood. Luke’s the cops. He’s debt. He’s the stud in the wall that everything hinges on. He’s the pain in Calum’s chest that keeps not going away. Luke chews through his ribs. Claws under his skin. Leaves Calum raw, stripped down to bones, nothing left.

Maybe Calum’s drunker than he thought. Or just stupid. Because he can feel Luke now, ghost-hands on his shoulders, warm and heavy. Voice low and urgent: “What the fuck are you doing to yourself?”

Maybe Calum’s crying. Or maybe it’s sweat. Maybe it’s just the heat of Luke’s ghost, leaning in too close, too familiar, too much like the real thing. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s the same thing. 

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard, like he can shove Luke back down. Fold him back into the dark corner he clawed out of. But Luke doesn’t leave. Luke never fucking leaves.

A car door yanks open with a gust of perfume and night air.

“Ugh, it smells like boy in here,” Cate groans, slamming into the back seat and jamming her knees into Calum’s chair like she’s trying to break it. “Nathan, your car smells like depression and sweat.”

Calum startles upright. Breath catches. The ghost of Luke dissolves like smoke.

Nathan slides into the driver’s seat, snorting. “That’s just Calum. You good, man?”

Calum blinks. Swipes a sleeve across his face like he wasn’t on the edge of a breakdown ten seconds ago. “I’m fine.”

A girl Calum doesn’t recognize, and honestly didn’t know was even here, leans forward between the seats. Her chin rests on the headrest. She studies him like he’s a puzzle with the last piece missing. 

“You don’t seem fine.”

Cate slaps the girl’s thigh. “Dude.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Calum half-laughs, no real venom behind it. Just… wary. He hates when friends bring strangers around when drugs are involved. Not because of trust. Mostly because he gets weird, says too much stupid shit. Lately, he’s been crying. And he really doesn’t want a stranger witnessing that.

“Alice.” She holds out her hand. He shakes it. Her skin is warm. Her nails are electric blue. Up close, her eyes are green, bright and clear. She smells like cotton candy vape and expensive shampoo.

“I’m Calum,” he says, letting go.

Alice sinks back into the seat. Cate immediately slings an arm around her shoulders, like they’ve done this a hundred times.

“Let’s go, Nathan,” Cate says, kicking his seat.

“Where to?”

“Matt’s. Everyone’s there.”

Calum stiffens.

Matt knows Luke. Not well, but enough. Calum can’t remember how. Luke just… knows people. Sometimes they’d walk through campus together. Calum would wait outside Luke’s building, leaning against the wall, watching the doors until Luke finally came out, always with a soft smile and a hand that found the back of Calum’s neck. “Hey, you,” he’d say. 

And as they walked, people would stop him. Say hi. Ask shit. Pat his shoulder, laugh too loudly. Calum would joke about how Luke somehow knew half the campus even though he never went to parties. In college, there’s no other way to meet people but parties, really. Luke would smile, lazy, crooked, and shrug like he couldn’t help it. “I’m just cool like that.”

Calum knows Luke won’t be at Matt’s tonight. But even the idea of stepping into a room full of people who know him makes Calum’s stomach twist.

He stares out the window. Watches the trees blur past. The moon is low and cut thin, like it’s been shaved down to its sharpest edge. Nathan taps the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing. Cate and Alice are singing, loud and off-key, bouncing in their seats like kids on too much sugar. At one point, Cate ruffles his hair, grinning at him like she can shake the sadness loose. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

No one says anything about the bleeding skin around his thumbnail. No one mentions the way his hands keep twitching like they’re looking for something to hold. And he’s glad.

They pull up to Matt’s house a few minutes later. Rental with a wraparound porch, half the lights dead. It looks quiet. Basement party, probably.

Nathan parks across the street, twists in his seat. “Let’s smoke here. I don’t want to share.”

Everyone nods.

He pops the trunk, comes back with a plate, grinder, and a plastic bag of green. Calum takes the bag, lifts it to his nose. Something inside him exhales. The anticipation is sharp and stupid. He watches as Nathan grinds the weed and rolls a blunt with practiced hands. Calum worries it won’t be enough for the four of them, but they can always roll another. His mouth waters. 

He doesn’t really smoke weed. Not usually. Not unless things get bad. Not unless missing Luke gets too loud. Which, lately, is most nights.

Nathan lights up, passes it to Cate first, polite like that.

They smoke till there’s nothing but filter left. Car windows fog, air heavy and sweet. Calum lets smoke settle in his lungs, wrap around his ribs. His eyelids go heavy. His body warms and slows, melting into the leather seat. The ache in his chest doesn’t leave, but it gets muffled. Nathan says something. His face looks dumb, red-eyed and soft, blurry around the edges. Calum starts laughing. Big, stupid, guttural laughter he can't seem to stop. Like a crack's opened in him and everything's pouring out.

“What? What?” Nathan blinks, stoned out of his mind, grinning at nothing.

Calum laughs harder. Can’t help it. It bursts out of him wild and sudden. Cate snorts, then wheezes, the kind of laugh that punches the air out of her. Calum can feel it vibrate in his chest. It makes everything feel real and unreal at once, like he’s inside a dream that used to be a memory. 

Alice starts laughing too, and now they’re all laughing at Nathan’s dumb face. Even Nathan, high as shit, delighted by his own confusion.

They laugh and laugh, then roll another blunt. It’s been a while. June brings warmer days, but with it deadlines and exams and too much stress. They’ve been tired, stretched thin. But now they’re here, baked out of their minds, half melted into car seats, and it feels good. Calum’s fucked, but in the good way. The soft-belly way. 

Cate talks about the party. The guy she made out with, how he turned out to be someone’s ex. Alice knows the girl. Of course she does. She chimes in, fills in the story with unnecessary details, commentary that’s way too specific. She talks with her hands. One of them ends up in Calum’s hair. Her fingers twist in his curls, absent-minded and firm. It feels nice, grounding. Then she yanks, and he lets out a soft, surprised whine. Alice laughs. He rubs the sore spot, smiling. 

They talk about summer, about getting a house near the beach, just the four of them. Maybe five, maybe six, depending on who’s around. The fantasy rolls out in slow, stoned detail: sand in their clothes, liquor in plastic cups, cheap speakers, saltwater skin.

He missed this, missed them. Even Alice’s okay. He barely knows her, but she’s here, and she’s warm, and he doesn’t feel like he’s slipping quite as fast with her fingers in his hair. He’s happy. Even if it’s just a trick of the high. Even if it’s borrowed.

He takes another hit. Coughs. Smoke curls down his throat, burns behind his eyes. The car spins gently now, like it’s on a turntable. He sinks deeper into the seat. The leather clings to the backs of his thighs, sticky and alive. His hoodie feels too heavy, like it’s crawling on him, so he yanks it off and throws it in Cate’s face. She shrieks, kicks his seat. He laughs, unhinged and high and light.

Voices start to warp, slow and slurred in his ears, like they’re underwater. Calum watches Nathan talking to Alice. He can’t hear the words, but he sees the shape of the questions. Yes or no. Yes or no. Alice nods, then shakes her head, then nods again like she’s forgotten which answer is which.

Calum’s whole body tingles. Every inch of skin electric. He’s not even thinking about Luke, except he is. Luke’s in Calum’s skin, in the curve of his spine, the stretch of his throat. Everywhere Luke ever touched him burns now, slow and steady. Like heat left in sheets after someone’s gone.

The air’s too hot. It smells like burnt weed and sweat and cheap cherry lip gloss. His skin itches. He shifts in his seat, but it doesn’t help. The spin keeps going. The blunt makes another round but he waves it off, hand limp, eyes half-lidded. He chews another fingernail, harder this time, until blood pools on his tongue. He tastes it, metallic and sharp, and doesn’t stop.

He does this when he’s nervous. When his chest’s too tight and the air’s too sweet and his hands won’t stop twitching. And his mind betrays him again, summoning Luke’s ghost. He pictures Luke’s mouth around his fingers, gentle and unbothered, sucking the blood off like his mother used to do with paper cuts. Luke pressing soft kisses to his knuckles, calling them “self-sabotaged” with that crooked smile. Luke holding his hands like he knows exactly what they’re trying to say.

“Let’s go inside,” Cate says, shoving her door open. “I’m hungry and it’s fucking hot in here.”

The door slams behind her. Nathan’s already half out, one hand braced on the roof, the other holding the blunt like it’s holy. He leans back in.

“You coming?”

Calum blinks. His eyes feel dry and overused. “In a sec,” he says.

Nathan stares a little too long. Opens his mouth like he might say something. He doesn’t. Just shrugs and lets the door shut behind him. 

Alice’s the last to go. She slides out slowly, pauses at the door. Looks back at him. Not pity. Just… knowing. Like she’s seen this kind of ache before and won’t poke at it. She closes the door gently behind her.

Calum watches through the glass as they stumble up the porch, tripping a little, laughing like nothing hurts. Nathan holds what’s left of the blunt to Alice’s mouth as they climb the steps. Cate’s already texting someone. Matt, probably. The porch light flickers above, moths circling. 

They pause at the door, turn back, and wave exaggeratedly, make funny faces. Calum lets out a dry chuckle, barely there. The door opens. Matt appears. Voices blur. Matt looks toward the car. Calum raises a small wave. Matt nods. The door shuts behind them.

And it’s just him again. 

He exhales. Long and slow. The silence wraps around him thick and wet. Like a blanket that doesn’t warm, just clings.

The keys are still in the ignition. He leans forward, rolls the window down a little more. Night air spills in, cool and soft against his sweat-damp face. It helps. But not enough. His chest aches. Not panic, exactly, but something heavier. His heart’s beating steady, but loud enough to feel. Loud enough to hurt.

He digs his phone out of his pocket. The screen glows harsh in the dark, too blue. He forgets his password for a second. His fingers are clumsy. When it finally unlocks, he opens Messages. The thread with Luke is right there. He reads it. Once. Then again. It’s nothing. A meme. A half-finished thought. A message Calum didn’t answer. A message Luke didn’t follow up on. But it still feels like a loaded gun in his hand.

His thumb hovers. Taps Luke’s name. He hesitates. Just for a second. And then he presses call. His hands are shaking. He chews on his fingernail, hissing at the sting. Blood again. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wipe it away.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Four. Then Luke picks up.

“Calum?” Luke’s voice is soft. Raspy. Sleep-rough. Calum must’ve woken him up. “It’s three— almost four in the morning.”

Calum stops biting. He swallows hard. The sound feels loud in the car. His heart kicks against his ribs, and the warm high starts to split open, sharp edges slicing through. He fumbles for the lever on the side of the seat, pushing it back until the seat reclines, the movement sudden and awkward. The space feels too small all of a sudden, like he’s outgrown it in the last thirty seconds. He stretches his legs out but it doesn’t help. Everything itches. 

“Sorry,” he says low, careful. Clears his throat and tries again, softer. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He closes his eyes. Can see Luke there, curls wild, cheeks soft and puffy with sleep, those dumb blue eyes half-lidded behind long lashes. Luke doesn’t say anything, just waits. Patient and steady.

“I’m at Matt’s,” Calum adds, words catching in his throat. “Well. Outside. Cate and Nate are inside.”

Luke exhales. It’s not quite a sigh. More like a slow breath pushed through tired lungs.

“You okay?”

Calum lets his head fall back against the seat. His throat feels thick.

“I don’t know,” he says. And that’s the truth. That’s the whole point. He doesn’t know.

There’s a pause. Luke’s still there. Calum can hear the faint shift of blankets. The sound of a bed creaking. 

“You high?” Luke asks. Not accusatory. Just tired. Just Luke.

Calum lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “Yeah.”

“It’s weird you called,” Luke says after a moment, voice dropping lower, softer. “I was dreaming about you.”

Calum’s fingers twitch at the hem of his shirt, nerves flickering like static under his skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Luke murmurs. Calum hears him move. The faint click of a light switch, cutting through the dark. “You died. A clown killed you. I cried and then killed the clown. It was very sad.”

“Jesus Christ.” Calum chuckles nervously. “Thought it was gonna be another kind of dream.”

He regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. Or maybe he doesn’t. Because they’re weird right now. He doesn’t know what they are, doesn’t know what Luke wants from him, or what he wants from Luke. It’s messy and undefined and complicated, and that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be right now. But he’s stoned. And Luke’s voice on the phone is slipping beneath his skin, threading itself through every muscle and ligament and tendon like it belongs there. He wishes he could reach through the line and touch him. Just press his fingers to Luke’s cheek and let everything spill out.

Luke doesn’t say anything. Just hums, low and soft. Calum looks up at the ceiling of the car. It moves, slowly, like water. Like it’s breathing with him. He’s so stoned.

“Are you thinking about me?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

The pause stretches out long enough for his heart to claw its way up his throat and slam against his teeth.

Then Luke answers, softly, “Yes.”

It’s not said like an answer. But more like a confession. Like something he didn’t mean to admit out loud. His voice cracks a little, just at the end. Like he was holding the word too tightly in his chest and it hurt to let it go.

Calum’s free hand rests on his thigh. He taps his fingers. He doesn’t know where he’s going with this. He’s nervous, almost nauseous. His heart is too heavy. His nails are bleeding. He’s sweating through his shirt. His stomach’s turning like a dishwasher and Luke is the only one who can fix him.

“Do you miss me?” he asks.

This time the silence stretches longer. Calum counts five whole seconds, and then two more. He wonders if Luke’s going to lie. Wonders if he’s already regretting picking up. Luke exhales. It sounds like he’s sitting down. Like he’s sinking into something. Maybe his bed, maybe the floor. Doesn’t matter.

“I do,” Luke says. A beat. Then softer, “Calum.”

“I want to see you,” he blurts out, breath hitching. Desperate. Embarrassing. Pathetic. But honest. And fuck it, he misses Luke. Misses him so much he can feel it in his teeth. And Luke misses him too. So maybe it’s worth trying. 

He hasn’t seen Luke in over three weeks. It’s too much. His body is fraying, or what’s left of it. Just bones now, thin and sharp and aching, held together by want and the memory of Luke’s hands. He thinks maybe he was built for Luke to hold, and without him, he’s coming apart.

“Is that a good idea?” Luke asks, cautious.

“Yes,” Calum answers too fast. “Yes. Luke—”

He almost pleads. Almost says please. It’s right there, caught in the back of his throat next to his heart, which is trying to claw its way out of his mouth. He bites down on another finger, gnawing at the already-raw skin as he waits. God. Please. Please. Please.

There’s a pause. A breath.

“Okay,” Luke says.

Calum stops breathing.

“I’ll pick you up,” Luke adds, quiet and steady. “I can drive you home.”

“Okay.”

Luke hangs up.

Calum lets the phone slide onto his lap and stares out at the street, the rows of houses swallowed by the dark. A dog barks somewhere far off. Leaves shift with the wind. The world moves around him, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, eyes locked on the cracked concrete like it’s holding him together. After a while, he blinks, like surfacing, and texts Nathan.

Luke’s coming to get me

The reply is fast.

ok. Cate’s pissed you’re ditching us tho

Tell her to stop being annoying

she says you can go suck dick. Luke’s dick. haha

Calum snorts, soft. The laugh barely makes it out of his throat, more breath than sound. He lets the screen go dark and tips his head back against the seat. Now too aware of his own dick in his pants. Of course. Because yeah. Luke.

Luke’s hands. Luke’s mouth. The slope of his neck, the freckles scattered across his collarbones like they were painted there on purpose. The faint line of hair that runs from his chest, down past his belly button, disappearing lower, lower. 

Your mind is truly your worst enemy.

His body responds before he even wants it to. It’s not fair. And because he’s high, everything is sharper, louder. He’s not hard, not really, but one more thought of Luke and he’ll be halfway there.

He jerks forward suddenly, like movement can shake the thoughts out, and pops open the center console. Fumbles around until his fingers land on Nathans’s library card. He holds it up to the light. Stares at the photo. Bursts out laughing. Nathan’s dumb, sleepy stoned face from earlier flickers in his mind and he laughs harder. Luke’s mouth, mercifully, pushed out of focus. Well. Not really. Never really. But Nathan’s face did its job. A temporary cure. He slides the card back into the console and shuts it with a snap.

Now he waits. He’s back to being nervous, and he’s running out of fingernails to chew. He stares at his hands. His knuckles are a little bruised. The edges of his nails are rimmed with a mixture of dried and fresh blood. He wipes them on his pants. Spits into his fingers, rubs at the worst of it. He doesn’t want Luke to see. 

He smokes too much. Drinks too much. He bites. He bleeds. Sometimes he hits. Sometimes he wants to disappear and sometimes he wants someone to stop him from doing it. Bad habits, all of them. Would Luke be one too? Or is he worse? Not a habit. Not even a vice. Something deeper. Scarier. Maybe he’s an addiction. Top of the list. Beating caffeine. Beating weed. Beating pain.

He pulls the sun visor down, flips open the mirror. Looks at himself. Regrets it immediately. His face is off. Wrong. Eyes red, lids heavy like sandbags. The bags under his eyes bloom dark in the dim yellow car light, his whole face sagging under the weight. He opens his eyes wide. Raises his eyebrows. Makes a face. Something cartoonish. His reflection shifts, morphs into someone he almost recognizes. He laughs.

He pushes the visor back up. Waits some more. Worries some more. His mind is a centrifuge, spinning, spinning, flinging thoughts out at random. He thinks about Luke’s mouth. But he also thinks about Luke’s words. And somehow, they both hurt. Somehow, they both heal.

He has no idea what he’s going to say. Or do. But he knows what he wants. He wants Luke to kiss his knuckles, suck the blood off his fingers like he used to. He wants Luke to hold him so tight his ribs stop rattling. He wants to hold Luke, kiss him, take him back to his bed. He wants Luke to want him. Wants Luke to open for him. Would he? The question claws at the inside of his skull.

His thoughts get swallowed by red tail lights cutting through the dark. He’s here.

Luke parks behind Nathan’s car, and Calum doesn’t move. Can’t. The urge to bite down is brutal. His fingers twitch like they’ve got their own mind, begging for something to chew. He stares through the rearview as Luke gets out. Each step is too slow and too fast all at once, like time doesn’t know how to behave around him. Calum feels each step land heavy inside his chest, thudding like a drumbeat against his ribs. Luke grows bigger in the mirror, closer, closer. He wants to throw up. He’s going to throw up. No, maybe not. But he could.

Luke looks too good. It’s fucking unfortunate. He’s in shorts and a hoodie, and Calum just knows there’s nothing underneath. He wants to die right there. How is he supposed to look at Luke and stay calm, knowing all it would take is a lift of that hoodie, fingers tracing the hair on his chest, tongue brushing over his collarbones?

Luke crouches down outside the door, peering in. He’s too fucking tall and beautiful, it’s ridiculous. Calum’s chest tighten, like his ribs are folding inward just to hold it all. Luke’s eyes are steady, patient. Like he knows Calum’s unraveling and is just waiting for it to finish.

Calum rolls the window all the way down, the cool air rushing in like a shock. He gets a better look. Luke’s skin glows under the streetlight. Calum can see the soft pores, faint shadows under his eyes, lashes long and curled and stupidly pretty. Those eyes. Too blue. The way they catch him, strip him bare. Calum almost wants to roll the window back up, hide.

“Hey, you,” Luke says. His voice is soft and steady, like warm hands on cold skin. He’s looking straight into Calum’s eyes, but then his gaze drifts, slow, like he’s memorizing every inch of his face. Calum feels naked. He wants to cover Luke’s eyes. Tell him to stop looking so close.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” Calum admits, voice rough and small. His fingers tap nervously against the door frame, jittery, exposed. He’s too high. Way too high for this.

Luke doesn’t answer. Just gives him the smallest smile, then opens the car door. Steps aside. Calum moves slowly, like he’s underwater. He remembers the keys in the ignition. Right. He grabs them, rolls the windows up, gets out, locks the car. Luke is already walking to his. Calum pulls out his phone to call Nathan.

“What do I do with your keys?” He asks, voice low, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Luke is in the car, watching him. His profile soft through the glass.

“Just leave them under the mat or something,” Nathan says, and in the background, Cate’s voice cuts through: Tell him to suck dick. Then Alice chimes in, “Hi, Calum!”

Calum laughs under his breath. Can’t help it. It comes out thin and tired, but real.

“Fuck off, Cate,” He heads to the porch, climbing the steps slow. “Hi, Alice.”

He crouches, phone wedged between cheek and shoulder as he lifts the mat and slips the keys under it.

“Okay, they’re under the mat. I’m going now.” he says, eyes on the mat, making sure it doesn’t scream “keys here.”

Thanks,” Nathan says. “Tell Luke I say hi. And don’t cry. Okay?”

Calum chuckles, even though his chest feels tight. “Yeah, okay.”

He hangs up, stands up, shoves his phone in his pocket. He walks to Luke’s car and almost trips, cheeks flushing hot as Luke watches him with that quiet, amused smile. 

He opens the passenger door and slides in. The car smells like Luke. Like cologne and clean skin and mint gum. Soft music hums low between them, and Luke’s hands are loose on the wheel, hoodie sleeves pushed up halfway. His forearms look soft. Calum wants to press his face against them like a child.

“Seatbelt,” Luke says. 

Calum fumbles with the buckle. Misses the slot twice before he gets it in. His fingers don’t feel like they belong to him.

“Nathan says hi,” Calum mumbles, not sure what else to say. His hands fidget in his lap, scraping at the raw skin on his knuckles. Still bleeding. Always bleeding.

Luke’s eyes drop to his fingers. His smile flickers, then his brow furrows just a little, like he’s cataloging the bruises, the scabs, the little cuts Calum won’t let heal. And Calum can tell he’s trying to not say anything. He reaches over and takes Calum’s hands in his. His touch is so gentle it feels violent. Calum tenses, almost pulls away, but Luke just turns his hands over, inspects the mess. His thumbs brush across torn skin, warm and careful, and it’s too much. Calum’s heart is in his throat, in his mouth, in his hands. 

After a few seconds, Luke lets go.

“You need to stop doing that,” Luke says quietly, shifting into gear. Calum watches him, the rough line of his jaw, the soft scruff of his beard catching the light, the curve of his neck. Every angle, every shadow makes Luke look like something impossible to hold. Calum wants to trace those edges with his fingers, to leave marks where his own bleed.

“It looks ugly. It must hurt, too.” Luke’s voice is low, eyes flicking between the road and Calum.

It does hurt. But not in the way Luke thinks. Not from skin or blood. The hurt is deeper. Meaner. His fingers throb not from injury, but from the ache of not touching Luke. Of sitting here and not being allowed. 

Calum wants to shove his fingers in Luke’s mouth. Wants him to taste the blood, the need. Wants to ruin both of them, just a little.

“I’m fine,” he says eventually, voice soft and tired. The sudden weight of exhaustion crashes into him like a wave, and he knows he’s coming down from the high.

“Okay,” Luke says, his voice steady but gentle. “How was your night?”

“Good,” Calum answers. He blinks slowly. Streetlights smear across the windshield like watercolors. “Nathan took us to a party. You would’ve hated it.”

Luke doesn’t reply. Just drives. Calum presses his forehead against the window. It’s too cold. Too hard. He shifts, curling slightly toward the door like he could disappear into the leather and plastic.

His voice breaks when he says, “You didn’t have to come.”

Luke doesn’t answer right away. Just changes lanes, smooth and silent. The city glows around them, yellow and tired. A few cars pass, but the world feels half-asleep.

Then, finally, softly: “I wanted to.”

The words thud into Calum’s chest like a slow heartbeat. He wants to believe them. Desperately. But something in him, the mean part, the wounded animal part, can’t let go of the idea that Luke’s kindness is borrowed time. That he’s always one slip away from being too much.

His tongue feels thick. He licks his lips. “I was a mess on the phone.”

Luke makes a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. “You’re always a mess.”

Calum swallows. He almost smiles. Almost. But it catches on his teeth.

Luke glances at him. “You sure you’re okay?”

Calum shrugs. His shoulders shake when he does, and he hopes Luke doesn’t notice. “Not really.” He turns his face to the window again. “I don’t know why I called you.”

But he does. Of course he does. Because it was Luke or no one. Because when the noise in his head got too loud, he wanted someone who wouldn’t be scared of it. Who might even sit in it with him. Because even when they’re fucked and broken and distant, Luke still feels like the only person who could hold all of Calum’s sharpest parts and not let go.

“I do,” Luke says, quiet.

Calum looks over. His breath catches in his throat. Luke’s jaw is tight, lips pressed into a line like he’s holding something back.

“I miss you,” Calum says, before he can stop himself. Voice raw and cracking.

Luke’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel. “You already said that.”

“I know.”

The silence that follows is worse. Too big, too loud. Calum wishes Luke would scream at him. Pull over. Touch him. Anything.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Lets the soft hum of the engine and the music wrap around him like a warm blanket too late in the night. His fingers twitch in his lap, restless and unsatisfied. He wants to say more. He wants to talk about the party, about the girl puking in the bathtub. About the weed, Nathan’s ridiculous face, Cate and Alice. The part just before Luke showed up, his mind somewhere dirty. But the words won’t come. Instead, he lets himself drift, slips into sleep.

He wakes to a hand on his shoulder. Luke. Close. Standing outside the open door, the dull yellow of the apartment complex behind him. His fingers are warm, steady. 

Calum groans softly, rubs his eyes too hard. Black spots burst behind his lids. Luke squeezes his shoulder once, then steps back. Doesn’t say anything. He slides out of the car, joints stiff. He stretches slowly, like he’s trying to stall, trying to drag this moment out until it’s thin as tissue. Luke shuts the door.

Calum stands there, caught between wanting to collapse and wanting to hold onto whatever this is for a little longer. He’s tired. The sleep was good, better than good, but now, wide awake and knowing Luke is about to leave, it lands on him like a fist to the ribs. Without thinking, he catches Luke’s wrist. Fingers curl tight around bone and skin, anchoring him there. Luke blinks, his eyes sweeping over Calum’s face, patient. Waiting. A reckless wave crashes through Calum, stupid and brave, and he pulls Luke gently toward him. Just a little. Just enough. Luke startles, but doesn’t pull away. He lets Calum close.

Calum’s heart is a hammer in his chest, loud and embarrassing. He wants to shove Luke against the wall. Wants to cry into his hoodie. Wants to drag his fingers through his hair and press their chests together until the heat between them melts the cold parts inside him. Until he can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose.

“I still don’t know what to say,” Calum murmurs. His hand drifts from Luke’s wrist to the soft curve of his forearm. “I just know I don’t want you to leave.”

Luke doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at him for a long time, like he’s silently listing all the reasons why they shouldn’t do this. Calum’s hand falls away, fingers twitching toward his mouth again, ready to chew the nerves out of himself, but Luke stops him.

“Okay,” he says softly. There’s hesitation in his voice, tension in the set of his jaw. But he nods. “I can stay.”

He locks the car, shoves the keys into his shorts pocket, and follows Calum toward the building. Calum pats his jeans until he finds his keys, fingers still shaky as he unlocks the door to the main entrance. He almost trips again walking toward the elevator. Luke catches him gently with a hand on his back, steady and warm.

“You’re so clumsy tonight,” Luke teases, a smile in his voice.

“Fuck off,” Calum mutters. 

Luke’s laugh is soft and stupid and perfect. Calum wants to crawl inside it and stay there.

His apartment’s on the sixth floor. The elevator hums and groans its way up and Calum thinks about kissing Luke against the mirror, about grabbing his hips, turning him, crowding him until there’s nowhere else to go. He pictures Luke bracing himself, cheek pressed to the glass, leaving a smudge there, mouth parted, eyes fluttered shut.

Luke rocks on his heels beside him, hoodie riding up slightly with the motion. He’s so close. Oblivious or cruel. Calum wants to run his hands under that hoodie, touch the bare skin of his back, leave nail marks, make him gasp. Wants to bite the back of his shoulder just to see what little sound might come out. Every ding of the elevator feels like a countdown to something he’s not sure he deserves.

When the elevator opens, Calum wants to thank the universe. One more minute in there and he would’ve combusted. He lets Luke step out first, follows close behind, watches the curl behind his ear bounce with each step.

At the apartment, Calum unlocks the door and flicks the light on. Luke slips his shoes off neatly and places them beside Calum’s and Nathan’s like he belongs there. He mirrors Luke’s movements. Hangs up his keys. His fingers are still twitchy.

He goes to the kitchen. Fills two glasses with water. Leans into the counter and just breathes. He hears Luke in the living room, keys landing on the coffee table, the soft clink of coins, the weight of his wallet hitting wood. Calum grips the counter so hard his knuckles go white. His fingers split again. He watches the blood bloom along the side of his nail. It hurts. Not the skin. Not really. What hurts is how easy it is, how Luke is moving through his space like it still belongs to him. Like he still does.

He straightens, grabs the glasses, and walks back out. Luke’s on the couch now, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees. His beard is darker in the warm light of the room. Not a full beard, not just stubble. That in-between softness that makes Calum’s hands ache.

He hands Luke the water and their fingers touch and it’s nothing but it’s everything.

Luke takes it. “Thanks.”

Calum sits down next to him. Not close enough. But not far. He drinks too fast. Sets the glass down too hard. Says, before he can stop himself, voice a little too wrecked:

“I thought about you all night. Even when I didn’t want to.”

Luke looks over, slow and deliberate. Doesn’t react right away. His voice, when it comes, is gentle. Careful. “Did something happen?”

Calum shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

Luke furrows his brows, sips his water. His Adam’s apple bobs. Calum watches his mouth the whole time. Watches the drop of water catch on his lip, the way his tongue darts out to catch it. It shouldn’t be allowed. It’s obscene, the way Luke just exists. Calum grips the couch cushion so hard his hand cramps.

“Luke,” he breathes. It comes out too broken. Too soft. He doesn’t move closer, but his body leans in anyway, like gravity’s stronger between them than anywhere else in the room.

“I’m not good at this,” Calum says, voice rough now. “I keep thinking I’ll be normal about it. About you. But then you’re here and I’m not— I’m not normal. Not even close.”

Luke swallows. His hoodie’s bunched up at his elbows and Calum can see a sliver of skin at his wrist, the edge of his tattoo, the soft inside of his arm. He wants to kiss that part. The most boring, human part. Not the lips. Not yet. Just that tiny vulnerable place by his veins. He wants to ruin himself there.

"You’re not normal, no,” Luke says. His mouth twitches like he’s trying to make a joke, but it dies before it makes it to a smile. His eyes drop to Calum’s lap. “And you seriously need to stop this.”

He shifts closer. His knee brushes Calum’s. Then his hand finds Calum’s wrist and lifts it like it’s fragile, like something already cracked. He holds it between them, both of them staring at the chewed, red mess of skin, each scab, each torn edge. Evidence. Then he places it gently on his own thigh. 

Luke’s fingers trace the damage, brushing over swollen knuckles like he’s reading them. Like a language only he knows. Calum’s breath hitches, caught in the cavern of his chest. The ache blooms behind his ribs, slow and deep and crushing. Not lust, not pain. Something in between. Something lonely.

And then Luke does what he always does, devastating, delicate, habitual. He lifts Calum’s hand again and kisses each bruised knuckle, one by one. Soft. Barely there. Calum flinches at the last one, the tenderness too much.

Luke doesn’t stop. He takes Calum’s index finger, presses until a small bead of blood wells beneath the torn skin. Then, without a word, he brings it to his mouth. Sucks it clean. Calum’s breath stutters out of him. His thighs twitch. He watches, dazed, as Luke’s lips close around the tip of his finger, warm and wet. Tongue pressing lightly, teeth grazing just enough to sting. The suction is soft but certain, and it sends something through Calum that’s worse than want. It’s need. The kind that scrapes along the inside of your ribs and makes you hollow from the inside out. 

Luke pulls back slowly. Lets Calum’s finger fall from his mouth.

“Why’d you do that?” Calum whispers, voice wrecked.

Luke shrugs, eyes still on him. His lips shine. “You looked like you wanted me to.”

Calum whimpers. Quiet. The kind of sound you only make when your body knows something your brain is still afraid of. He’s holding still like if he moves too fast, it’ll all vanish. Like touching too much will make Luke disappear.

“I still don’t know what this is,” he manages. “What we’re doing.”

Luke’s expression softens like something painful cracked open behind his eyes. “So what do we do now?”

Calum’s heart is doing something frantic. Something doomed. “I don’t know,” he says, and it’s too honest. “But I want to touch you.”

Luke nods. Like that’s enough. Like they don’t need a name for this. For anything.

Calum reaches out, careful, and touches the hem of Luke’s hoodie first. Just to anchor himself. Just to believe it’s real. Then he pushes under it, fingers skimming over coarse fabric and landing on skin. Luke’s stomach is warm and soft under his palm. Calum exhales like he’s been drowning. Luke watches him the whole time, his mouth parted, breathing just a little too hard.

“You’re shaking,” Luke says.

“I know.”

And then Luke leans in. Closes the gap. Their foreheads touch, and Calum swears he might actually cry.

“I missed you so much it made me sick,” Calum breathes against his skin.

“I’m here now,” Luke whispers.

So Calum kisses him. It’s not soft. Not gentle. It’s teeth and desperation and mouths trying to fit together after time part. Luke kisses him back like he’s starving. Like he’s been just as sick. His hand slides to the back of Calum’s neck, holding him there like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go.

Calum fists the front of Luke’s hoodie, pulls him in until he’s practically in his lap. Luke climbs over him willingly, thighs straddling Calum’s, pressing down with a weight that makes Calum gasp into his mouth. 

They break apart for air and Calum stares up at him, dizzy and aching.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says. “You’re actually gonna fucking kill me.”

Luke smiles, but it’s sad around the edges. His thumb brushes Calum’s cheekbone like he’s memorizing it. Then he kisses him again, slower this time, deeper. Like maybe they can undo the last few weeks with mouths alone.

Calum’s hands find the hem of Luke’s hoodie. Luke lifts his arms without hesitation, lets Calum pull it over his head. Bare underneath, just like Calum thought. That same soft chest hair, the small tattoo by his ribs, the faint pink of his nipples rising with goosebumps. Calum touches the dip of his collarbone, then leans in and runs his tongue over it. Like he dreamed about doing in the car. Luke groans, low and helpless.

“I want to fuck you up,” Calum murmurs.

“You already did,” Luke says quietly. “A long time ago.”

Calum swallows hard. His mouth is full of Luke. Full of want. Full of grief. It all tastes the same.

He lets his hands wander like he’s allowed to now, like something has broken open and there’s no going back. He traces Luke’s ribs, the sharp edge of bone, the faint lines of ink. He breathes over bare skin and watches it tighten.

“I wanted to forget about you,” Calum whispers into his skin. “Tried so fucking hard. But it just got worse.”

Luke closes his eyes. “I know. I could feel it.”

Calum drags his hands down Luke’s back, fingers trembling, clutching at his waist like he’s afraid they’ll fall apart. His thumbs dip under the waistband of Luke’s shorts, and it’s too much. He can’t look at him. Can’t look Luke in the face when he feels this exposed.

“I thought if I didn’t talk to you, if I didn’t see you...” Calum’s voice breaks. “But I kept dreaming about you. Woke up hard, aching. Felt like I was choking on it.”

Luke lets out a shuddering breath. His hands move to Calum’s jaw, then his hair, tugging gently.

“You should’ve called me,” he says, voice cracking just a little.

“I was scared,” Calum admits. “Still am.”

Luke kisses him again, tongue dragging lazily against his like he has nowhere else to be. Like this is the whole world. Calum fists his hands in Luke’s shorts, palms warm and shaky as he pushes them down over his hips, baring Luke’s thighs. He kisses the corner of Luke’s mouth, then lower, over his jaw, down his throat.

“You’re shaking again,” Luke says softly, fingers brushing Calum’s jaw. 

Calum nods. He doesn’t try to lie about it. What would be the point?

His mouth is on the soft underside of Luke’s arm, right where he wanted earlier, the vulnerable skin before the elbow, that thin blue vein like a map home. He sinks his teeth in, not hard, just enough to feel Luke flinch. Calum breathes into the heat of him, the blood just under the surface, like he could live here. Like if he just stayed very still, maybe everything would stop hurting.

Luke hisses, but he doesn’t pull away. His hand cradles Calum’s head like something precious. “Don’t stop,” he says.

So Calum doesn’t. He stays there, breathing Luke in like a fix. Like it might stitch the shaking back out of his hands. Maybe if he just presses hard enough, if he melts far enough into Luke’s skin, he can forget the versions of himself that don’t deserve this.

“Come to my room,” Calum murmurs, lips still against Luke’s skin.

Luke just nods, quiet. No hesitation. He stands, tugs Calum up with him, steady when Calum nearly stumbles. The walk through the apartment is silent except for the hum of the fridge and their breath and the sound of bare feet on tile. Calum’s room is a mess. There’s clothes on the floor, his bed is unmade, and there’s glasses of water on the nightstand that have probably been there for days. But it’s theirs now.

Luke drops onto the bed without needing to be told. Sprawls out, head against the pillow like it belongs to him. He looks up at Calum like he’s waiting for him to make sense of everything, the distance, the silences, the ache that’s never quite gone away.

Calum leans over him, hands braced on either side of Luke’s face. His breath catches. “You sure?”

Luke nods, pupils blown wide. “Yeah.”

Calum peels his clothes off, shirt, jeans, socks, one layer at a time, like he’s shedding armor. And then he’s on Luke. Kissing him like he’s starving. Like he’s trying to make up for lost time with teeth and tongue and the desperate grind of their hips. He holds Luke down by the wrists, grinds against him through boxers, breath caught in his throat like he’s drowning on it. Luke bucks up, gasping into his mouth, fingers clawing at the sheets like there’s nothing else to hold on to.

“God, I missed this,” Calum says into his neck. “Missed how you sound. Missed how you feel. Missed you.”

Luke’s pliant underneath him, wrecked already. He makes this little noise when Calum nips at his throat and bites down hard enough to leave a mark, then kisses it like an apology. Calum’s hand moves lower, cups him through thin cotton, and Luke arches up so suddenly it feels like he might break in half.

“Calum—fuck, please.”

Calum strips him slow. Mouth lingering on every inch of new skin, kisses left behind like bruises. His tongue finds the soft spot above Luke’s cock that always makes him jolt. He’s so fucking responsive. He always has been. It kills Calum. 

When Luke’s finally bare, panting and flushed and already half-undone, Calum just stops. Sits back on his heels. Takes him in.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, like it’s not up for debate.

Luke blushes hard, tries to look away, but Calum won’t let him. He kisses him again, then pushes Luke’s legs up, grinding against him until their cocks catch together, slick with pre-come and want.

“I want to fuck you,” Calum says, voice frayed at the edges.

Luke lets out this sound, like a sob and a gasp all tangled together. “Then do it.”

Calum fumbles the drawer open with shaking fingers. Finds the lube. He slicks up slow, then works Luke open with trembling patience. Kisses him through it, talks him through it, breathes, “You’re doing so good, Luke, so good,” right against his lips. Luke moans into his mouth like it’s the only way he knows how to answer.

“Please,” Luke pants. “Just—Calum—”

Calum retreats his fingers, and Luke whines like something vital’s been taken away. Calum leans down and kisses the crease of his hip like a promise. Then he’s pushing in, slow and deep, and it’s like the world stops. Like there’s nothing else but the burn and stretch and the way Luke clutches at him, legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Fuck—” Calum breathes. “You feel—Jesus, Luke, you feel so fucking good.”

Luke’s nails dig into his shoulders. “Don’t stop. Please. I need—” His voice cracks open. “Need you.”

Calum fucks him slow at first, hips rolling in tight, aching circles. Luke’s mouth drops open. Every breath is a broken sound. His eyes are glassy, and Calum thinks he might never recover from this.

He picks up the pace, each thrust harder, deeper, more desperate. Luke moans like he’s being taken apart molecule by molecule. Calum leans in, teeth grazing over the curve of Luke’s collarbone, down the ridge of his chest, over that fragile spot just above his heart.

“You’re mine,” Calum says, voice breaking. “You’ve always been mine.”

Luke nods, lips parted, eyes fluttering. “Yours. I’m yours. Fuck—don’t stop, don’t ever—”

Calum fucks him like he’s trying to disappear inside him. Like he can bury every ache, every bad thought, every sleepless night, every silent phone call in the heat of Luke’s body. And Luke just keeps giving. Keeps meeting him thrust for thrust, breath for breath, like he wants to be destroyed. Calum’s chest tightens. The pressure is too much. Something in him cracks wide open. His rhythm stutters, and his eyes blur. He presses his nose to Luke’s cheek and lets out this sound like a half sob, half prayer. Luke moans, wraps his arms around Calum’s back, and it grounds him. Fills the cracks.

He pulls back to look at him, and Luke looks wrecked with his eyes dark, lips kissed raw, chest heaving. And God, he’s beautiful. He’s fucking beautiful. 

Calum finds his rhythm again, desperate now, deeper, chasing something he doesn’t have the words for. Every thrust is a question. Luke’s body is the only answer that matters. Luke meets him, gasping, moaning Calum’s name over and over like it’s the only word he’s ever known. And with every wrecked noise he makes, every pleading kiss to Calum’s mouth, every “don’t stop,” every “please,” Calum comes undone a little more. He’s being stitched back together with sweat and spit and love and longing, but it’s messy. It’s so messy. And that’s okay. Because Calum wants to ruin himself here. On Luke. In Luke. With Luke. And maybe, just maybe, he already has.

“I’m gonna come soon,” he chokes out, voice shaking, like it’s been clawed raw from the inside.

“Yeah,” Luke breathes, and then Calum hits just right and Luke cries out. “Yeah. Me too.”

Calum fucks him through it, fingers gripping Luke’s hips so tight he might bruise them. His mouth is pressed to the slope of Luke’s throat, tasting sweat, salt, skin. He says Luke’s name like it’s a tether. Like maybe if he says it enough, he won’t float off the edge of himself.

And when Luke comes, it’s with a full-body tremor, nails dragging down Calum’s back. It undoes him. All of it. Calum follows with a sound that barely escapes his throat, something broken and full of too much. His whole body locks, then spills, burning at the edges. Every nerve stripped bare.

They don’t move after. Can’t. Calum stays inside him, still trembling, forehead resting against Luke’s collarbone like it’s the only stable surface in a room that won’t stop spinning. He tries to breathe. It’s hard. Like his lungs forgot how. Luke’s heartbeat pounds steady beneath his ear. Calum clings to it. To him.

Their sweat-slicked skin clings together, hot and a little gross, but it feels good. Like they’re still fused somehow. Like if Calum stays like this long enough, he might never feel hollow again. His bones ache less with Luke wrapped around them. His ribs don’t rattle as much. Luke holds him in place. He undoes him, yes, always has. But he builds him back too, crooked but whole, and Calum doesn’t even try to make sense of how someone can be both the wreck and the rescue.

They’re still half-naked. Half-sweaty. Calum’s dick aches in that post-orgasm, oversensitive way, and Luke’s thighs are sticky where they’re pressed against his own. The room smells like sex and desperation and the kind of love that never learned how to be gentle. His skin buzzes. His teeth ache. He feels strung-out and wired and wrung completely dry.

He pulls out slowly. Luke flinches. Calum doesn’t say sorry, but he finds Luke’s hand without thinking, laces their fingers together. His thumb strokes slow over the back of it, like an apology. Like a thank you. Like please still be here.

“I think I need you,” Calum says, staring up at the ceiling like it might answer back. His voice is thick with sleep and sex and something else. Something sharper, something that might ruin everything if he looks it in the eye. “You’re the only one who knows how to make me better.”

Silence.

Luke doesn’t answer right away. His breath is still shallow. His chest still rising fast. Calum starts to panic in the quiet, because he meant it, and he knows that’s dangerous. He knows he shouldn’t hand Luke that kind of power.

Then Luke says it. Quiet. Almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“That’s the problem.”

Calum’s stomach flips. He almost pulls his hand away. But Luke tightens his grip. Doesn’t let go. It doesn’t sound cruel. It sounds scared. Like he’s terrified of what it means too. Like neither of them know how to stop burning down the house they keep trying to live in.

They lie there. Skin cooling. Hearts still loud. The air between them feels overstuffed and hollow at once. Calum swears he can feel the ceiling caving in and holding them up all at the same time. 

Luke shifts closer. His forehead rests against Calum’s shoulder.

“You break everything,” Luke says softly. Almost kindly. “But I let you.”

Calum turns, mouth brushing Luke’s damp hair, and he whispers: “I never mean to.”

“I know,” Luke says. “It’s okay.”

He presses a kiss to the edge of Calum’s cheekbone. Then another, softer, to his temple. Calum’s heart jumps in his chest like a trapped animal. He exhales, shaky, and the spiral comes for him again, that sharp little voice in his head listing all the ways he’s too much, too needy, too fucked-up to stay. Then Luke kisses him on the mouth, soft and steady. He moves Calum’s hand to rest on his own stomach, then lays his own hand over Calum’s chest, right where it’s beating too fast. Warm and solid. A heartbeat outside of his own.

“Shh,” Luke whispers, like he’s talking to Calum’s heart, telling it to hush, to calm down. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Calum nods. His eyes flutter shut. And he lets go. Lets the sound of Luke’s breathing sing him to sleep.