Chapter Text
"Just don't fuck it up again."
Quote: Michael Clifford. King of motivational speaking.
Michael's girlfriend, Abby Lockwood, laughs. Luke Hemmings doesn't. Because —
"I'm serious, Mike," he whines. "I want to make a good impression."
The bleached blonde shakes his head. He half shrugs because one hoodie-sleeve clad arm is draped over Abby's shoulder. As a kid, Luke thought stuff like that was gross, but if he had a partner of his own, he knows he'd be as touchy and affectionate, no matter how many Starbucks customers would watch with their judgmental eyes. Like how most are watching Michael and Abby now over the rim of their paper cups.
"I think you need to stop worrying so much about people liking you. Some will, some won't, and that's life," Michael says.
Luke personally feels like that's a harsh way to put it, but he knows he's right. He sighs and drops his head to rest on his arms folded on the wooden table. He sighs.
"Uh, Luke? It's eleven thirty," Abby reminds him.
"Shit," Luke whispers and hastily pushes himself away from the table. He speed-walks with ease due to his long legs and eyes the huge line of people at the counter with dismay.
Hopefully they're people who only visit Starbucks because they want a coffee.
This is gonna be a long day.
The thing about Luke is that he lives a very repetitive life. He wakes up, brushes his teeth, has a shower, and the then feeds his bulldog Petunia. Then he goes to work at Starbucks, serves everyone coffee for seven hours, then goes home and to bed early. Even his weekends are structured around a consistent cycle: sleep in, play video games with Michael, walk the dog, stay up late, repeat. Anything he has to do outside of that routine is often chaotic and messy and never ends as he wants it to.
But not today. Today, he's determined. Because today, Tuesday, July 18th, Luke's getting a new neighbor in the apartment room beside his. And he has to make a good impression, since last time the new person ended up hating him because he played his music "too loud." Like, how is that even possible? He still doesn't know.
So, he's got a plan. He's had it written on a scrap of paper and pinned to the fridge door since last month, when that old lady full of hatred told him she would be leaving. He's ready, he's prepared, and nothing will stop him from being liked by his new neighbor.
He pauses his video game (Red Dead Redemption, because Grand Theft Auto is overrated, excuse his unpopular opinion) every ten minutes to go peek out the door. Every time, the old lady's boxes full of vases and picture frames and a creepy cat statue are all still there.
At around noon, he powers off his Xbox and makes himself a chicken salad. Petunia continues to sleep on her bed by the sofa. She doesn't even lift her head. He sits at the small dining room table, looking out the sliding door that opens to the pathetic excuse for a patio. Like, all he can do is stand on it, but anyway. After he finishes it, he puts it in the sink. The clang of ceramic against metal almost drowns out the sound of a box being dropped in the hallway outside.
Luke drops the bowl the rest of the way, not even bothering to see if it breaks or not. He opens the door the smallest bit and sees the old lady following behind a younger girl carrying the last box.
He cheers, "Yes!" because she's finally gone and he knows she's too deaf to hear him. The granddaughter looks confused.
Luke bounces back into his apartment, maybe he closed the door, maybe he didn't, who knows?
It occurs to him that his new neighbor could also be an old lady, and he almost gives up and goes to bed. Then he decides, no, I'm going to try my best to have a friend as a neighbor. Because Luke's one of those people that feels like he needs to be liked, and it was agony having Mean Old Martha as a neighbor who didn't.
He keeps an ear out for someone opening the neighboring room's door. It's easy to hear because it's always had squeaky hinges, and it's always annoyed him. (The one time he asked Mean Old Martha if he could fix it for her, she yelled at him for bugging her then slammed the door in his face.)
It's a quarter after three when he finally hears it. His heart's beating frantically with nerves. He doesn't know why; it's not like he's going to propose or anything. Just say "Hey, my name's Luke, I'm your new neighbor, nice to meet you" or something like that.
Easy.
He turns the volume down on his TV and listens as the door opens and closes next door. Slightly after dinner, it closes and stays that way, so he figures they're all done with moving in.
He reviews the note about twenty three times, then shoves it in the trash then fixes his hair. He's got this.
He steels himself and lifts his hand to knock on the wooden door. The sound echoes in the hallway and he can feel his palms sweating. He hears the door's lock click and he wipes his hands on his pants just as the door opens.
The guy is around Luke's age — early twenties. He's got darker, almost tanned skin, with short black curls that flop across his forehead in the summer heat. Luke instantly notices how soft his eyes are, like chocolate colored honey, and the way his skin gets these cute wrinkles around them when he smiles like he is now. His eyelashes brush against his skin. He's a bit shorter than Luke but well built. His blue tee shirt and black shorts put all his toned muscles on display.
Luke snaps his jaw and meets the guy's faint smirk, those eyes drawing Luke in like a Venus flytrap that will snap shut and leave him paralyzed.
And Luke's more than willing to fly right in.
"Hey," the man says. And, oh God his voice. Luke could die happy right now. "How can I help you?" He sounds grumpy, so Luke should make this quick. His mind goes blank as soon as he opens his mouth.
"Uh. I'm Luke." Fuck, what do I say? "I'm not 6'4. I'm, like, 6'2 at best."
Here, Dude will glare at him, his beautiful eyes darker in anger. He'll slam the door on Luke's face with an irritated huff. Luke will end up sulking back into his own apartment and burying himself in the virtual world of Red Dead Redemption and ignore Michael's phone calls and texts. Because he's told Luke to not do this exact thing.
"Luke?"
Dude's voice isn't pissed off, though, as he summons Luke in reality again. Instead, he looks puzzled as he gazes at the blonde. Luke can feel his skin tingling under his eyes, like the guy is pulling apart his cells to analyze, then shoves them back together incorrectly. His head's tilted slightly as he comments, "that's a cool height bro. I'd love to talk more, but I'm pretty tired and it's been a long day. So we can talk later, yeah?"
Despite his words, he doesn't let Luke have any time to submit his input before the door is closed. Literally and figuratively.
Luke didn't even get the chance to ask for his name.
He hurries back into his room and slams the door harder than necessary. He's just— he fucked it up. Again. Like he always does. Because he can't do anything right. No matter how much he makes plans.
He flops onto the couch and Petunia jumps up beside him. He picks up his phone and rubs his palm in circles on her soft white forehead. She licks his wrist in an attempt to cheer him up.
It doesn't help, but he appreciates the gesture anyways.