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Luke seamed to get better after that. Well, better was a strong word to use really. He still didn’t remove his shirt, and now more than ever, you noticed that he had resorted to wearing long sleeved shirts and covering up as much of his ghostly white skin as possible. In himself- his general attitude towards you, the boys and the fans- he was the same. Always loud and happy and excited, but he was a shell. On the outside perfect and pretty with lovely enticing swirls that made you wonder, but on the inside, hollow and empty and filled with nothing but darkness that ate him up inside. He was hollow inside and it didn’t even show. That terrified you more than anything.
Even when his head was filled with thoughts that would make your toes curl, one of his ‘dark days’ you had called it, as his eyes seamed to hold something in them that was dark in its nature and dulled the deep blue icy orbs to something resembling the colour of a clear sky before a thunder storm, when he felt like the small walls of his own body were closing in and constricting him until he could barely breathe, he remained that giggly ‘little’ boy with the blonde quiff which he had always been. Projecting a façade of what he knew he should be like, even when inside he even hated the mask he wore. And of course, a normal person wouldn’t know any of the internal torment he was going through. A simple interviewer wouldn’t know that when Luke even tried to hide the pale skin of his hands between the bottom of his thighs and a chair, or under the sleeves of his jumper-yes, he even hated the thin, delicate skin that stretched over his dainty hands- or that no, his eyes didn’t look ‘dull’ or ‘out-of-it’ when they had lost their sheen to them, that it was actually his way of coping. Take that coping away and he would scream, or shout, or do something more permanent. But they didn’t know this, any of this, and Luke had a good way of hiding it. Hiding what he viewed as vulnerability, but to you was just the signs of a child who had been forced into the scorching and scarring heat of a spotlight known as fame, way, way before he was ready.
When he wasn’t having a dark day, you couldn’t really pick out anything. He was Luke, and that was all you ever saw. Luke the way he had always been, before this ‘thing’, whatever it was, had decided to manifest at the back of Luke’s brain, until it wasn’t at the back of his consciousness anymore. Now it had condensed itself into this little ball of self-hatred and self-loathing. It sat on his chest, between his ribs and constricted his breathing, prohibited the beating of his heart in a way that felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore. He was suffocating himself and the increased layers of clothes he seemed to be wearing didn’t help his feeling of not being able to fill his lungs with air.
He was eating better though. His ribs didn’t look as if they would pierce through his skin anymore, and the veins on his wrists didn’t look so prominent and purple. He was healthy, eating whatever you could coax him into eating, which would vary from a lot, to barely a mouthful. But he trusted you. Felt more comfortable, literally, in his own skin with you. The other boys tried their best to understand, Ashton feeling slightly helpless since losing his status of the big brother with the shoulder to cry on. Not that anyone was neglecting the status they had bestowed upon him. But Luke just didn’t feel comfortable with the mere centimetres of flesh he allowed to be exposed, being seen by the other boys. Only letting you catch glimpses when you were alone. They tried not to take it personally, but it was hard. And you saw how sometimes there eyes would soften with sadness, but sometimes light with a small fire that resembled anger when they just didn’t understand. They tried their best anyway.
But what was worst was the touching. Or therefore lack of touching. The previously notorious cuddler of the band had found yet another way to punish himself. But the thing is, he wasn’t even punishing himself. He thought by subjecting others to the ‘sickly feeling’ of his skin, or his ‘un-toned and undefined’ muscles on them, that he was submitting such a horrible act upon someone unsuspecting. Any contact in his eyes was forbidden. No one could touch him at all. Not even you and it tore you apart inside to see him like this. Anything other than the huge, covering clothes he wore touching his body made his skin crawl, and his eyes would water and he would snatch his hand away from the contact as soon as possible. He thought that he repulsed people with his shape, and his curves and even the silhouette of his body, so he kept himself away. Not even once touching anyone or anything. But when he did touch someone, the sharp intake of breath and the quick action of him ripping his hand away was so surreal. Always being the affectionate one, the reflex to pull away was comparable to someone burning themselves, and it was almost as painful to watch. The skin on the backs of his arms prickled and goose bumps would form- a physical repulsion to the feeling of so much as a hair breath of skin on skin contact- if anyone so much as brushed their arm along his when reaching over him for a phone, or drink, or anything.
It was heart-breaking to watch. To see him cutting himself of from something he had relied so heavily upon. And all due to the fact that he didn’t want people to feel the shape of his ‘inadequate’ body against theirs. So naturally the kiss in the bathroom was forgotten at the back of your minds, ‘forgotten’ if forgotten meant daily thought about by you, that is. However it was because of another, that Luke now severed all connection to anyone at all. His skin was covered, his skin almost as if it was collecting dust after laying untouched by another for so long and the whites of his eyes seamed to grow redder ever day with lack of sleep and a surplus of salty tears shed.
Whoever had set this deep fear of himself in Luke’s mind only had to look at him to see the way he was crumbling. Breaking into tiny little pieces which he himself tied together with the flimsiest piece of string in the clumsiest way. From a distance, you couldn’t see the thin thread holding him together, and he looked like a masterpiece. But only when you got close, did you see the cracks in the painting and how haphazardly it had been strung back together. And really, only then did you see the mess he was in. But he tried his best, and his best was all he had ever given.
Okay, so maybe Luke wasn’t better after that.
***
There was a shuffling and stumbling outside your door, and almost hesitant padding of feet casting shadows through the crack under the doorframe to light your room. Inside it was dark, the closed curtains blocking out most of the light, and the state of the disarray in the room could have said to have also darkened the interior. There were clothes and mischalenious objects littering the floor, clothes belonging to you and three other boys- who you regarded as brothers- and other objects you had collected and allowed to catch dust lay everywhere. No remains of a blonde haired boy lingering in the room, almost as if he was a phantom with no strings tying him down and lingering for too long. It tugged at your heart that not even a simple penguin sticker had been pressed into the wood of your cupboard as a little reminder that he was there, and a hair brush clogged completely with hair gel didn’t sit on the mirrored vanity like it had done before Luke’s world shattered. The only light illuminating the room was the glare of your lap top, and the only source of life was your body, cocooned tightly in the duvet with your back against the headrest. It could have been midnight or midday, but the pleasurable feeling of the laptop warming your legs through the thin hotel duvet and the crater in the bed surrounded by all your necessities- headphones, phone, gum, a bottle of water, a box of a strange sugary sounding sweets with a name you couldn’t pronounce, and a long cold cup of coffee on the bedside table- made themselves know, and forced you with soft hands to remain exactly where you were, regardless of any pressing matters of importance.
There was a little huff outside, drawing your attention again to the pacing feet, and you dragged your eyes from the screen of the laptop to stare at the door. Hoping whoever was outside the door wasn’t Calum or Michael booby trapping your door with some gunk throwing slingshot, or Ashton trying to rope you into going for a run, or Luke. Maybe you were hoping it was Luke, but not in a state where you would have to stick the piece together. You stared down the door, fixing it with a gaze as if you could see through it, willing whoever was behind it to cease the incessant noise of feet slapping on the wood- or was it tile- flooring outside. The pacing stopped, and the shadows stopped moving in your room. There was a pause, then a tentative knock on the door. Rolling your eyes, you hummed in acknowledgment and let the person inside. At least that was one of the rules that the boys did actually keep, after awkward stiffness in the pants of one of the boys after they had walked in on you changing in your adolescence, the ‘line of privacy’ as Ashton called it, had been drawn. Snuffing out any more awkward raging hormones, and after that, the boys always knocked, a question of decency on their tongues, before they barged into your room.
The door opened slowly, the bottom of it dragged along the carpet of your room. It made a noise as it opened, the lower ledge of the door catching on the carpet and probably a shirt being moved out of the way at the same time. Light flooded in the room around the figure in the door, and you squinted slightly against the light. Sometimes you were way to much like Michael in your vampire-esque tendencies. You made a mental note to blame him for you reclusiveness later. But right now, you took in the tall silhouette, thankfully, blocking most of the light entering the door. Luke stood there, chewing his lip like always, and squinting into the room. He looked good today. Not in what he was wearing, –even though he did look good- in his normal mandatory skinny jeans and a long sleeved white t-shirt. It looked like it belonged to Ashton as the arms were slighty stretched and his shoulder were only marginally too big for it. It was the most normal you had seen him in a long time, even the purple bruises under his eyes looked calmer and less angry today. It almost took your breath away to see him looking so…so normal, after all the sleepless nights you had spent hearing him crying himself to sleep without being able to just swaddle him up in your arms and rock him into security.
“Um, Y/N?” he stuttered. This was Luke nowadays. A stumbling bundle of nervousness. Almost as if he was burdening anyone just with a few syllables. But normally he was able to push past at least this barrier for you. The way he asked your name was as if it was a question, asking if he was able to talk. He spoke all the time as is someone was about to yell at him to shut up, and like he shouldn’t really be speaking at all. You broke slightly every time he almost asked permission with his every word.
“Yeah?” you replied with a smile that hoped put him more at ease. Your eyes had begun to adjust to the light so you placed the warm laptop on the side table without the cold coffee on it, and leaned over to flick on the bedside light. It was brighter than expected and your eyes were dazzled momentarily before looking back to the door. Luke had stepped closer into the room, closer to your ‘personal area’ and you almost fist pumped the air as that was one of the first times Luke had felt comfortable enough to even take a step closer to someone of his own accord.
“Like, maybe could you, um, does my…” he trailed off. His voice going weak at the end. He took in a deep breath, his chest expanding with the effort and spoke again. “Doesmyhairlookokay?” he exhaled all at once.
You blinked at him, knowing better than to make a comment for him to calm down or repeat himself. Why make him go through the effort when it would only cause him more pain. For Luke to even ask such a question, which had the opportunity to be answer negatively, was a huge step. And this time you couldn’t help the small twitch of your lips as you relished in the triumph. Luke didn’t see anyway; too busy staring intently at his feet on the floor.
You hummed, and flicked the duvet off of yourself before walking over to him. Obviously his hair looked great as usually, all piled up but it wasn’t fluffy around the edges the way you liked. To just say that his hair looked perfect like normal wouldn’t have been enough. He wouldn’t have believed you, or would have only thought you were saying it for him to get over ‘his problem’. So your steeled yourself, sent a little prayer up to anyone ‘up there’ who was listening, and reached out to touch his hair. Praying he would flinch or blubber when you did. It was the briefest of touches, just a tiny fraction when you pulled the baby hair from the quiff so it left a less defined tower of his blonde hair. It looked more relaxed and reminded you when all of his hair was just relaxed in its long fringe over half of his face. But still, he tensed up. His eyes watering slightly at the feeling of something that he couldn’t control. You reasoned with yourself that you weren’t pushing him too far as you technically weren’t touching his skin.
The door of your room was still open and the clashing of pots and pans could be heard from the small kitchenette, but it was all white noise. As you ever so delicately pulled the hairs from his quiff, Luke let out the tiniest of noises. Like a whimper and a tear slowly ran down his cheek. It was fat and heavy and it fell to the floor. You felt like the falling tear shook the ground when it touched the carpet, the weight of it so heavy and dangerous. Even though his tears continued to fall, all individual and leaving their own trail down his face, you continued to pull against the baby hairs. And Luke didn’t even stop you. Once you’d finished, you let your hand drop and whispered. “You’re perfect”. Double meanings and all of that had never been more relevant.
“Thank you” Luke whispered voice quivering and uneven. He squeezed his eyes shut, so tight that he could see stars behind them and you could see the crinkles of his eyelids. Then without opening his eyes at all, with trembling fingers, reached out to you. His skin came into contact with yours, and it was almost searing how hot the place of contact was. His hands were shaking so violently and his whole frame seamed to vibrate when he threaded your fingers together. His breathing was erratic, laced with a few hiccups and splutters, and tears continued to leak from his closed eyes, turning his skin almost translucent. Once he had slotted his hand into yours, his palm matching with yours, you squeezed tightly and he collapsed onto you.
The slight pressure of reassurance when you had squeezed his hand had been enough to smash through his walls with the force of a sledgehammer. When you had pushed his palm in yours, his interlaced fingers feeling yours between his, some jolt of electricity had shot through his hand to his brain. And it sparked something in him. Something that screamed with intensity “worthy” and “good-enough”. The feeling of something, that he was actually something pulsed like electricity and lit up his body like fire. From where he had fallen into you, with his face buried harshly into your neck, and his arms wrapped painfully tight around your waist, you felt like crying. Every point of contact between you sparked with electricity and barriers in Luke’s brain were being shocked apart and broken down. This was more than a simple hug and his arms encircling you were a rope tieing him to you. You were dragging him down to reality. And sometimes that was perceived as bad, but in this case, Luke needed a bit of reality. He needed to see that, yes, in reality, he was worth so much more and degrading himself was worthless. He, however, was not worthless.
You embraced each other like your lives depended on it. In all honestly, Luke’s life probably did. Luke’s hands were no longer trembling, but when he pulled his face away from the crook of your neck to look at you from such a close angle, his lips were. The darkness of his wet eyelashes casted shadows along his porcelain face. He looked so beautiful. With a quivering bottom lip, he asked, “Y/N, can you…’cause I can’t do that myself just yet?”. His eyes were cast down, and his forehead was creased with a frown. Your heart hammered in your chest and your brain fuzzed but short-circuited. Leaving your brain thoughtless, and you unable to form thoughts let alone sentences. All that flowed through you was a feeling of joy, elation, and pure pride at Luke. Oh, and also the huge feeling of love that coursed through you like an electric current.
You didn’t need to ask what he was asking for as you lent forward slowly, ever so slowly, pulling him closer with your arms around his neck, till your lips met. When you felt a tear fall between you as you pressed soft kisses to each other’s mouths, you didn’t know if it was yours or Luke’s. You only knew as you continued to share the same air, and felt no need to pull apart than maybe, just maybe, you were stitching Luke back together with something stronger than the thin string he had used himself. Piecing back together a painting was much easier once you were allowed to touch it, so as you slowly started to kitten lick at his bottom lip, you thought about how maybe this mess would evolve into a masterpiece.