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calumcest · 5 years ago

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you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter four

[ao3]

ok remember when i said this isnt going to be a long fic and now here we are at like 26k. never listen to me when i say anything is the moral of the story here clearly ! also i promise you i have an actual plot in mind we’re getting there i’m just very slow-burny with this but please dont think every chapter is going to be more of the same and get bored i promise you it is actually going somewhere in the next chapter

also tw: mentions of suicidal thoughts

Luke’s week is filled with research.

He wakes up with bated breath, checking the tattoo in his bathroom mirror just to see whether it’s grown any more but still unable to breathe easy when he finds it hasn’t. The black ink bleeding across his pale skin makes his heart twist every time he sees it - it’s a beautiful reminder of the most terrible time of his life. Luke’s pretty sure he didn’t really understand the meaning of the word bittersweet until the tattoo appeared on his shoulderblade.

Every spare moment of his day is spent reading scientific reports with words that he has to Google and make his head hurt. He scrolls through pages and pages of studies looking for any explanation of tattoo growth that isn’t it’s going to grow indefinitely unless you sort something out with Ashton, which seems to be what the London study was concluding. He looks into people who don’t have tattoos, into people whose tattoos are unfinished, into people whose soulmates have died, into people whose soulmates are violent criminals (which makes Luke feel a little melodramatic, for the first time, because there are people who actually want to be with their soulmate but find out their soulmate’s a serial killer, while Luke’s all torn up about his just because he broke Luke’s heart). He reads journal after journal detailing research into how the tattoos form, how they grow, what happens on people’s eighteenth birthdays, but nothing mentions the tattoos growing after that point. Everything seems to start and stop on people’s eighteenth birthdays.

Calum and Michael help, because of course they do. Lunchtimes and evenings are spent huddled around phones and computers, occasional mumbles of “This one says...oh, wait, no, never mind,” punctuating the silence. Luke’s not sure whether the lack of information on tattoo growth should make him feel better or worse, give him hope or discourage him, but it kind of manages to do both.

The following Tuesday, Michael decides to suggest something they’ve all been thinking, but none of them have wanted to say, because uncertainty might be better than its potential consequences.

“You should email the researchers,” he says. He doesn’t need to say which ones, even though they’ve looked into endless researchers over the past week. Luke sighs, and lets his eyes flutter shut. He knows. They all know.

“I know,” he says. “I should.” He can hear the trepidation in his own voice.

“We can write it together,” Calum says, rubbing at his eyes, because he’s been staring at screens on Luke’s behalf since the minute he woke up.

“What do I even say?” Luke says, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “‘Hi, my soulmate is my archnemesis and my tattoo grew, tell me how to stop it?’”

“Archnemesis?” Michael says, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well, who else would my archnemesis be?”

“Whoever originally named Clifford?” Calum offers.

“Hey,” Michael says, pointing at Calum accusingly. “That might be your surname one day.” Calum scoffs.

“Calum Clifford? Are you insane?”

“What, like Michael Hood is any better?”

“Not my fault you have a shitty name,” Calum says, with a shrug. Michael makes a noise of outrage, like he’s gearing himself up for a point-evidence-explain destruction of Calum’s point, and Luke busies himself with opening up his email. The idea of Calum and Michael getting married is more than enough to bring that bitter taste back into his mouth, to make him have to forcibly quash down envy and sadness and anger. Calum seems to sense it, because he shoots Michael a look and turns back to Luke.

“Have you got their email?” he asks. Luke clicks back onto the report that he hasn’t shut for over a week, scrolls to the bottom and nods.

“What do I say?” he asks. His stomach is churning, already nervous for the response to the email of which he hasn’t even typed a single word yet. He might not even get a response, he tells himself. They’re busy people. They might not have time to read their emails. Or maybe ‘[email protected]’ is embarrassing enough to get sent straight to junk mail.

“Describe the situation,” Michael says, scratching Clifford behind his ears. Clifford almost purrs, leaning into Michael’s touch. “Say you dated, and it didn’t work out, and you both know you’re soulmates but given that you’ve tried it and it didn’t work you’re not sure why your tattoo has grown.” Luke nods, typing as Michael speaks.

“It might help if you gave the reason,” Calum says, a little tentative. Luke’s fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “I mean, like, if you specifically say Ashton fell out of love. That’s got to mean something, right, given that they’re soulmate tattoos?” Luke hesitates another moment, considering - he’s not really a big fan of sharing all this personal information, but Calum’s right, he might get a more accurate answer the more he shares - before nodding and typing.

From: <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]>, <[email protected]> Subject: Soulmate Tattoo Growth

Dear Mr Johnson and Ms Newbury,

I recently stumbled across your soulmate tattoo growth study and was hoping you could provide some insight into my own situation. My soulmate and I dated prior to the tattoos appearing, which ended due to him falling out of love with me. Both of us are aware that we are soulmates, and we have had a conversation about what this means for us and ultimately decided to remain apart. However, since this conversation, and having had a chance meeting, both of our tattoos have grown. Given that we have already dated and it did not work out, I am looking for an explanation and, if possible, a method for preventing it growing any further.

Yours sincerely,

Luke Hemmings

He reads it out to Michael and Calum, who both nod thoughtfully.

“Sounds good,” Calum says. Michael nods his agreement. Luke presses send before he can reconsider, and then slams his laptop shut and stands up, stretching. Clifford jumps off Michael’s lap and runs over to Luke, wagging his tail.

“Thanks for helping me,” Luke says, bending down to pat Clifford’s head and trying his best to push the email out of his head. There’s nothing he can do about it now, he tells himself, willing the knot of anxiety in his stomach to loosen.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t do it for free,” Michael reassures him.

“We’ll be calling in this favour at some point,” Calum adds.

“As long as it’s not for doing the Wellson report for Chris,” Luke says, cracking his back and relishing the way it makes Michael wince. Calum winces too, but Luke thinks that’s probably more to do with the Wellson report than his back. “Fuck, I can’t be arsed to cook. Pizza?”

“Why even bother phrasing that as a question with him in here?” Calum says in exasperation, nodding at Michael as Michael’s eyes light up.

“Fuck you,” Michael says, but there’s no heat behind the words and he’s already pulled his phone out. “Arty’s?” Calum and Luke nod, because where else would they order from, and Luke flops back onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.

“I’m not letting you bring a Hawaiian pizza into my house, though,” Luke warns Michael. Michael blinks innocently at him.

“Hi, I’d like to order three pizzas,” he says, maintaining eye contact with Luke. “Two pepperoni, and one with ham and pineapple.” Luke rolls his eyes and flips him off. “Oh, is that a Hawaiian? I had no idea. Yes, just one, please.”

“Dickhead,” Luke says, and Michael smiles at him sweetly as he flips him off in return.

-------

On Friday, Luke oversleeps.

That’s not particularly out of the ordinary, except this time, Luke really oversleeps. Like, he-should-be-at-his-desk-by-the-time-he-gets-out-of-bed kind of oversleeping.

He swears under his breath as he fumbles with his phone, firing off a text to Calum to cover for him if Phil happens to walk into their office and ask where he is, and tries to pull his clothes on as he’s brushing his teeth. He doesn’t have time to check whether or not he’s got everything he needs, just tears out of the house and sprints all the way to the station. There’s a train to Central idling at the platform, looking like it could close its doors any minute, so Luke legs it onto the nearest carriage, swinging himself into the first empty set of seats he can find and trying to catch his breath.

The train doors close about twenty seconds later, when Luke’s breathing is starting to even out, but Luke barely notices, already engrossed in his phone. He’s so engrossed in sending Calum a text to say he’s on his way, in fact, that he doesn’t notice someone looming over him, until he hears a “Luke?” that startles him into looking up. His face drops into a scowl almost immediately as his stomach plummets, because what the fuck.

It’s Ashton fucking Irwin.

Again.

“What the fuck?” Luke says, not sure whether he’s saying it in surprise or anger.

“Hi,” Ashton says, and he’s definitely just surprised. “You’re not usually here.”

“I woke up late,” Luke says, even though he doesn’t owe Ashton an explanation for his movements.

“Can I sit down?”

“No,” Luke says, because it’s early, he’s frazzled, and he’s late for work. “The train is empty. Sit somewhere else.”

“We should talk,” Ashton says, which seems to be, like, the only fucking sentence he’s capable of saying.

“About?” Ashton stares at him like he’s an idiot.

“Uh, the tattoos growing?” he says, and, yeah, okay. That’s kind of fair. Luke had hung up on Ashton mid-conversation, after all, and then sent off an email about their situation to some researchers without telling him.

“Fine,” Luke says, indicating the seat opposite him with one hand and placing his phone on the table between them with the other. Ashton slides into the seat opposite him, raking a hand through his black hair, and Luke can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to Ashton’s biceps with the movement. He’s definitely more muscular than he’d been the last time Luke had seen him. Well, not the last time, but the last-last time. Actually, it’s the last-last-last time, now. Luke doesn’t like that.

“I’ve been looking it up,” Ashton begins, and Luke waves him away.

“The London study?” he says, cutting to the chase, because he really doesn’t want to talk to Ashton any longer than he has to. Ashton bites his lip, and nods. “Yeah. I emailed them.” He waits for the frown, for the you told them? Luke, I really would have liked to have been part of that decision, but it never comes.

“Me too,” Ashton says. Luke frowns. It’s hypocritical, but that doesn’t sit well with him. It makes his skin crawl, that Ashton’s emailed them too, because he’s probably spun the story in a way that makes him sound better.

“What did you say?” Luke says, a little sharply. Ashton shrugs, but Luke sees the edge of tension in his posture. He pushes down the discomfort that arises at the realisation that he still knows Ashton’s mannerisms, that the little twist of his mouth means he’s uncomfortable about something.

“I told them the truth,” Ashton says.

“The truth?” Luke says, arching an eyebrow. “Or your truth?”

“I told them my side of the story,” Ashton says, which means he’s given them this whole I was just scared of commitment, I still loved you bullshit, with maybe a smidge of I tried to win my soulmate back over but he wasn’t having it. “Wait, what did you say?”

“That you fell out of love with me.” Ashton stares at him for a moment, and then shakes his head.

“Fuck,” he says, and Luke thinks that summarises it pretty aptly. “Have you heard back?” Luke shrugs. He never really checks his non-work emails - it’s usually full of junk he signed up to ten years ago and has never been bothered to unsubscribe from.

“Haven’t looked,” he says.

“I haven’t,” Ashton says, even though Luke hadn’t asked.

“Good for you.” Ashton bites his lip, like he wants to say something else, but then sinks back into his seat, like he’s thought better of it. Luke’s glad - this morning has been shitty enough without having another lengthy conversation with Ashton about their feelings, or whatever.

Ten minutes pass, and Luke unlocks his phone to do something, anything other than give Ashton any indication that he’s open to another conversation, ending up playing Tetris and shielding it from Ashton’s view so it looks like he’s possibly texting a cute guy, or something. He’s actually doing pretty well, getting close to beating his high score, when Ashton says: “What’s yours?”

“Huh?” Luke says, momentarily distracted. He drops the piece in the wrong place, and swears under his breath. Fucking Ashton.

“What did you get?” Ashton presses. “When it grew?”

“Spot,” Luke says.

“Oh,” Ashton says, in a small voice, like it’s an answer he hadn’t wanted to hear. That piques Luke’s interest, despite himself.

“Why?”

“I- uh.” Ashton looks out of the window at the grey buildings bathed in summer sun. “Mine’s your dog. Clifford.”

“Right,” Luke says slowly, because he feels like he’s missing something here.

“Do you think-” Ashton says, and then cuts himself off, biting his lip.

“Do I think what , Ashton?” Luke says, a touch irritably. Ashton shrugs, and Luke’s about ready to throttle him. “Spit it out, Jesus Christ. I don’t have time for this.”

“It’s just- we got them after meeting in the dog park,” Ashton says, all in a rush. “Do you think it’s going to happen every time we bump into each other?” Luke blinks at him.

“What, you think I’m going to get a fucking train on my back now?” he says sarcastically.

“I don’t know,” Ashton says thoughtfully, completely ignoring Luke’s sarcasm. It makes Luke’s blood boil a little bit, that Ashton’s disregarding him like that, and he clenches his teeth. Professional. Arm’s length. No emotion. “But it seems a bit coincidental, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Luke says, through gritted teeth. “There’s only so many things about you the universe could turn into a tattoo. Spot’s one of them.”

“What if whenever we see each other-”

“Jesus, Ashton, it doesn’t matter ‘what if’, because we’re not going to see each other anymore, are we?” Luke snaps. “I think I’ve made myself pretty clear.” Ashton looks a little taken aback, blinking at Luke.

“Luke,” he says slowly, patronisingly, like Luke’s a child that needs something obvious explaining to him, as the train starts to slow down. Luke’s going to dust off his old boxing skills and break Ashton’s nose. “We broke up two years ago. How many times did we see each other in those two years?”

“None, until a month ago, which is what I fucking wa-”

“Exactly,” Ashton says calmly, cutting Luke off. The train judders to a halt, as Luke stares at Ashton furiously, trying to work out what he’s saying. He’s so fucking full of himself, honestly - exactly, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? He’s always liked speaking in tongues, making himself feel intelligent, like he’s better than Luke- “This is your stop, isn’t it?”

Luke grinds his teeth, but Calum can only stave Phil off for so long, so he gets up and gathers his things together, grabbing his phone and bag and getting up while counting down from ten in his head to stop himself saying something he regrets.

“Bye,” Ashton calls, when Luke rounds the corner to the doors, like they’re fucking friends.

“Go fuck yourself,” Luke spits back, earning himself a shocked look from the guy he shoulders past to get off the train. It’s not professional, it’s not arm’s length, and it’s definitely not devoid of emotion, but fuck, it feels good.

-------

“What the fuck crawled up your arse?” Calum asks, when Luke snaps at him for the fifth time in about half an hour. Luke sighs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Ashton was on my train this morning.”

“What?” Calum’s irritability is suddenly replaced with pure shock. “Is he stalking you?”

“Possibly,” Luke says. “God. I fucking hate him, Cal.”

“What’d he do?”

“He always thinks he’s better than me,” Luke says angrily. “Like, he’s always been the one that’s into philosophy, reads seven hundred newspapers every morning, does yoga and reads religious texts and all that, and he’s always looked down on me for not doing that, like that somehow makes me less intelligent than him. He talks to me like I’m a fucking kid , talks to me in riddles because he likes it when I have to ask him what he means, likes the fucking power trip-”

“Hey,” Calum says, cutting Luke off, and Luke stops, breathing heavily. “I know.”

“I hate him,” Luke says again, but it’s smaller this time, and he feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. Jesus. He’s so over crying over Ashton Irwin.

“I know,” Calum repeats, gentle and calm. “You want to get some fresh air?” Luke doesn’t, really, because it’s about thirty-five degrees outside and it’s hot enough in the air-conditioned office, but he nods anyway. Calum scrapes his chair back and follows Luke out of the office, down the stairs to the fire exit that Chris had disabled the alarm from so that he could go out to smoke and only told Calum and Luke about, and Luke gulps down breaths of the muggy December air as soon as they’re outside. It helps to ground him, feeling the hot breeze stealing across his face, and he closes his eyes and tilts his head into the bright afternoon sun, letting spots dance across the inside of his eyelids.

“What’d he say?” Calum asks, after a few minutes have passed and Luke’s breathing is steady and even.

“Some fucking bullshit,” Luke mumbles. “He got Clifford, and apparently that means something, because we didn’t see each other for two years. Like, what the fuck is that, a cryptic crossword clue? Does he think I work for ASIS?” There’s a pause, and then the pause becomes too long to be comfortable, and Luke cracks open an eyelid. Calum’s staring at him, something between shock and horror etched across his features. “What?”

“Jesus, Luke,” Calum says. “Fuck.”

“What, Cal, I’ve fucking had it with this cryptic bullshi-”

“What if the tattoos are going to grow every time you bump into each other?” Calum says.

“Yeah, Calum, I got that, I’m not that fucking stupid,” Luke says, exasperated. “He said that, but I pointed out that it doesn’t matter either way, because I’m not going to see him.”

“That’s exactly his point,” Calum says. “You haven’t seen him in two years, and now you bump into him twice in the space of a couple of weeks.” And, oh.

Oh.

“What the fuck?” Luke demands, because he can’t think of anything better that sums up all the thoughts racing through his mind right now.

“I mean, think about it,” Calum says slowly, a little hesitantly, like Luke’s about to bite his head off.

(Luke might bite his head off.)

“I’m thinking,” Luke says, and it comes out almost a growl.

“The tattoos, they come fr- well, we think they must come from the universe, right? So what if the universe is pulling the strings so you’re bumping into each other now?” Luke stares at him in disbelief.

“That’s the worst theory I’ve ever heard,” he says after a moment. “If the universe was pulling any fucking strings it wouldn’t have let me and Ashton date in the first place, and it definitely wouldn’t have let Ashton break up with me in a way that nearly made me kill myself.”

The words ring harsh in the thick December air, and Luke wants to claw them back as soon as they leave his lips. It’s an unspoken rule that they don’t talk about it, they don’t say that Luke nearly killed himself over Ashton. They can allude to it, make polite euphemisms, but they don’t say it.

“Luke,” Calum says, and his tone is soft, and Luke doesn’t want his pity.

“No, Cal,” Luke says, and it’s a little too harsh. “Sorry.” Calum tries to protest, but Luke cuts in first- “No, I’m sorry. I’m just- it’s not been a good day, but that doesn’t mean I get to take it out on you. I know you’re only trying to help. I just...I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about it.” He exhales, raking a hand through his hair, and Calum puts a hand on his forearm.

“Hey,” he says, calm, reassuring. “It’s okay, Luke.”

It’s not, Luke thinks, as he tries for a weak smile. It’s not okay, because it’s Ashton, and he doesn’t know when it’s going to be okay again.

-------

A text arrives from Ashton when Luke’s packing up to leave.

Ashton Irwin I was right.

Luke blocks his number.

-------

Luke changes his routine, after that.

Blocking Ashton’s number made him feel kind of worse, kind of jumpier and leaves a twist somewhere deep in his gut which he doesn’t really understand, so he unblocks him after a bottle of red wine on Saturday night. He steadfastly refuses to look in the mirror, though, because the more he’s been thinking about Calum’s (and, he supposes, Ashton’s) conspiracy theory, the more it seems to root itself in his mind, twining itself around all of his thoughts. It’s just easier not to think about it, to focus on the fourteen thousand other things he has to do and ignore the way his back feels like it’s on fire whenever he devotes any attention to it.

He finally checks his emails on Sunday evening. He’s got twenty minutes before he needs to be at Calum’s, so he figures it’s a good time to see whether the researchers have got back to him since he can’t sit and freak out about it, and he’s got Clifford curled up on his lap serenely, so he feels grounded enough to look.

There’s a bunch of shit, as he’d expected, and he sits with his finger on the backspace key for about five minutes, deleting all the Nike subscription list emails (why the fuck do they send out so many?), until one catches his eye.

RE: Soulmate Tattoo Growth

Luke’s palms are immediately slick with sweat, heart pounding in every inch of his body as he clicks the email open. Clifford rolls over in his lap with a small whine, resting his head on Luke’s thigh, like he can sense Luke’s anxiety.

From: <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Cc: <[email protected]> RE: Soulmate Tattoo Growth

Dear Mr Hemmings,

Thank you very much for your email. Apologies for the length of time it took to send a response, but as you can imagine we are currently inundated with queries.

Your case is of particular interest to us. Though we cannot currently provide you with any concrete answers, there are many elements to your particular situation which we would like to explore and perhaps discover answers to, if you would be willing to be a part of our study. I will attach both mine and my colleague’s contact details should you decide to take us up on our offer.

We believe your soulmate contacted us too, and we have made the same offer to him.

Kind regards,

Colin Johnson

Beneath the email are two sets of phone numbers, emails and addresses to a university in London.

Luke swallows, hard. It’s far from the answer he had wanted, although he’d known deep down that expecting a don’t worry, everything will be fine response had been wishful thinking on a new level. He’d never expected them to want to study him, though, to be reduced to some kind of scientific experiment. Something about that doesn’t sit quite right with him.

He closes his laptop, not wanting to think about it anymore, and tips Clifford off his lap.

“C’mon, Cliff,” he says. “Let’s go to Calum’s.”

-------

“You’re a fucking cheat,” Michael yells, when Calum scores again, and Luke can’t help laughing at the look of pure outrage on his face as he rounds on Calum. “How the fuck did you do that? How the fuck did you do that?” He’s shaking his controller in Calum’s face, but Calum just laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Pure talent,” he says, grinning at Michael. Michael scoffs, somehow managing to sound furious while doing it.

“You’re cheating,” he insists, and Calum laughs harder, curling in on himself on the sofa. “Luke, help me out.” Luke holds his hands up, laughing as he shakes his head. “You fucking bastard. What do I keep you around for if not to gang up on Calum with me?”

“To stare at my arse,” Luke says, because Michael stares at his arse a lot.

“You do stare at his arse a lot,” Calum tells Michael. Michael squawks, incensed.

“You’re not allowed to gang up on me!” he says indignantly. “Cliff, you’re on my side, right? You think Cal’s a dirty cheat, don’t you?” Clifford just stares up at Michael, wagging his tail happily. “He thinks you’re a dirty cheat, Cal.”

“That’s funny,” Calum says conversationally, “because I think he was actually saying Mike, you’re a sore loser?”

“I heard something that sounded like Michael’s just not very good at Fifa?” Luke adds innocently. Calum nods, mock-thoughtful.

“I’m pretty sure that was in there somewhere,” he agrees.

“Fuck you both,” Michael says, glaring at each of them in turn. “I’m good at Fifa. I’ve been playing it since Fifa 06.”

“On the fucking Wii, Mike, that doesn’t count,” Luke says.

“Maybe Fifa 22 just isn’t for you,” Calum says with a shrug, eyes gleaming.

“They’re all the fucking same, Calu-” Michael starts, before he seems to realise what Calum’s suggesting. “Fuck you, fucking-” He doesn’t finish his sentence, choosing instead to launch himself at Calum, who squeals, laughter turning to gasps for air and frantic pleas of stop, please, Mikey, please, stop, Luke, help me. Luke takes a wary step back - there’s no telling who Michael’s going to attack when he feels slighted by both of them, and Luke’s even more ticklish than Calum, so he’s not taking any chances, thank you very much.

Eventually, Michael relents, and Calum wheezes, red-faced and panting, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Michael sits back, pushing his fringe out of his face with a satisfied look on his face.

“Fuck you,” Calum manages, gazing at the ceiling. Michael grins.

“If you ask nicely,” he says. Luke pulls a face.

“See if I ever suck your dick again,” Calum says, still speaking to the ceiling, and Luke can’t help the choked noise that escapes his throat. Calum pulls his head up, like he’s just remembered Luke’s there, and Michael’s grin widens at the horrified look on Luke’s face.

“Okay,” Luke says, as Calum struggles to push himself back into a seated position on the sofa. “Ground rules. I don’t want to hear about your sex life.” Michael rolls his eyes, still grinning.

“Prude,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. Luke just flips him off.

“Can I lay a ground rule?” Calum says. “Michael has to admit he’s bad at Fifa before I consider making you all dinner.” Michael crosses his arms.

“Firstly, that’s not a ground rule,” he says.

“I’m not taking criticism,” Calum says.

“Secondly,” Michael continues breezily, like Calum had never spoken, “I respect you too much to lie to you.”

“Good, because I’m starving,” Luke says, looking at Michael expectantly. Michael scowls.

“Let’s settle this in a real football match,” Calum says. “Five a side next Saturday.” Michael doesn’t look too keen on the idea, and even Luke hesitates.

“It’s fucking December, Cal,” he says. “I’m going to keel over from heatstroke after twenty minutes.”

“You’re going to keel over from heatstroke?” Michael says. “I’m probably not going to even make it onto the pitch.”

“Hey,” Calum says. “You both owe me favours. I’m calling them in.”

“What fucking favour do I owe you?” Michael says indignantly.

“You know,” Calum says pointedly.

“I don’t,” Michael says. Calum’s making a face at him, one that Luke doesn’t have to be his soulmate to read, a you know what I’m talking about, get the hint, I can’t say it in front of Luke.

“Yes, you do,” Calum says, eyes flicking to Luke. Michael follows his gaze, and then realisation dawns on his face.

“Oh,” he says, sounding distinctly annoyed about it. “Fine. But I’m only playing one half.”

“I don’t owe you any favours,” Luke says confidently, when Calum’s gaze slides over to him.

“Think again,” Calum says, grinning. “I told you I don’t help with emails for free.” Luke groans.

“That was a joke,” he says.

“Nope,” Calum says cheerfully. “Five a side. Saturday. Ten o’clock.”

“Ten?” Luke’s not sure who sounds more scandalised, him or Michael.

“Ten,” Calum confirms, and Luke’s own groan is drowned out by Michael’s.

-------

On Tuesday, Luke finally snaps.

He’s somehow managed to pull his pyjama top off in his sleep, finding it discarded and drenched in sweat on the floor when he wakes up. There’s no point putting it back on, because it’s fucking boiling, so he just pads into the bathroom shirtless, yawning and scratching his arm.

He brushes his teeth, washes his face, puts on his moisturiser, and then turns to wipe his hands clean - and catches a flash of black ink as he does so.

Wet hands forgotten, he turns back to the mirror, staring at himself. He watches his own blue eyes blink back at him as he weighs up his options. He could keep ignoring it, pretending it’s not there, and he’d probably be okay at it, for a while. He could probably go another few weeks pretending nothing’s happened, distracting himself like he has been for the past five days - especially with Christmas just around the corner - but, when he’s honest with himself, he knows it’d always be there, at the back of his mind.

It can’t hurt to look, he tells his reflection. Mirror Luke just blinks at him, looking lost and confused, frown lines that weren’t there eight months ago etched into his forehead. It can’t hurt to look, because it won’t change anything. Whatever is there is there, whether or not Luke’s aware of it. His ignorance won’t make it go away, or stop it changing.

Taking a deep breath, he steels himself, keeping his eyes locked on his reflection, and turns around.

He immediately sees four numbers in an arc above the moon, and his heart sinks. 09:47.

He’s not entirely sure what the numbers mean, but he can hazard a guess. With one final glance at the tattoo, now taking up a large portion of his shoulderblade, he turns back and grabs his phone off the sink, scrolling back through his conversation with Calum to Friday morning.

Me I’m on the train.

He remembers sending that text. He’d sent it just as the train had started pulling out of the station, just before Ashton had appeared. With trembling fingers - which, okay, he thinks is fair given the situation he’s in - he swipes to the left on the message to see the timestamp.

09:47am.

The numbers blink back at him, grey on white, like they don’t know they’ve just confirmed something that cannot, cannot be true.

Luke cannot have his two options be work something out with Ashton or become a canvas for Ashton. There’s got to be a third option, a get-out-of-jail-free clause, something that isn’t telling him he’s either doomed to spend eternity with the last person he ever wants to see again, or become a mess of black ink and have his body display Ashton rather than being his own.

He barely even knows what he’s doing until the phone is at his ear.

“You finally looked?” Ashton says, and Luke hates it, hates that Ashton knows he’s tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“It can’t be right,” Luke says, voice too loud in the small bathroom, bouncing off all the tiles and feeding back into his own ears.

“What’s yours?”

“The time the train left,” Luke says, and his voice sounds a little shaky. He hopes Ashton can’t hear the tremors.

“Mine’s the time it arrived,” Ashton says, even though Luke hadn’t asked, he never fucking asks, because he doesn’t want to know.

“Shit,” Luke says, and he hears a quiet whine and some scratching at the bathroom door. He doesn’t have the energy to let Clifford in though, can barely even keep himself upright, steadying himself on the sink with the hand that isn’t clutching his phone.

“I know,” Ashton says. “Did they email you back?” Luke doesn’t have to ask who they are, just nods, numbly.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Do you want to do it?”

Luke hesitates. He hadn’t thought about Ashton even giving him a chance - he’d assumed Ashton would say whatever Ashton said, and Luke would say whatever Luke said. He hadn’t considered their answers not being separate.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully.

“Okay,” Ashton says. “I mean. It’s a big decision.”

“I know, Ashton,” Luke says, frustrated that this is what Ashton wants to focus on, like they don’t have bigger things to worry about, like Luke’s skin becoming a museum to Ashton Fletcher Irwin. “I just- I don’t have time to think about it right now, okay?”

“Hey,” Ashton says, voice kind, gentle, soothing. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll get through this.”

A sudden wave of calmness surges through Luke’s veins, loosening his lungs, his heart, his mind. It’s like nothing Luke’s ever felt before, like falling asleep when he’s comfortably tired and waking up slowly and the sensation of the sun on his skin all at the same time.

It’s the scariest fucking thing Luke’s ever experienced in his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps out, heart constricting, lungs tightening, mind narrowing, and he stabs the ‘end call’ button as he sinks to the floor. His phone clatters onto the tiles, and Luke vaguely registers that it’s probably cracked, and the whining and scratching outside the door is getting louder and louder and Luke can’t fucking think, can’t fucking breathe because everything is Ashton, and nothing is Luke. Everything is Ashton, like he’s twenty-four all over again, sobbing on this bathroom floor after throwing up God knows how much alcohol.

It’s that thought that focuses him, sobers him, pulls him back to reality and away from his racing mind, because he’s not going to do that this time. Ashton’s taken enough from him, taken love and happiness and tears and almost his fucking life, and Luke’s not going to do that this time.

His vision swims back into relative clarity as he focuses on his breathing like his therapist always said - in, hold, out; in, hold, out - and he wrestles himself to his knees to pull down the door handle. As soon as there’s a crack in the door, Clifford’s racing through, and Luke releases the door handle with a bang and falls back against the bathtub as Clifford climbs all over him, still whining, licking every inch of Luke’s skin. Luke wraps his arms around him, and Clifford carries on licking, warm and rough against Luke’s skin. It grounds him, reminding him that he’s here, he’s alive, he’s got Clifford to look after, he’s got the cool bathtub pressed uncomfortably against his spine. His shaky breathing evens out, and he feels colour returning to his face. Clifford begins to settle a little, only licking at Luke’s chin, and when Luke thinks about the fact that he’s now going to have to shower and be late for work the tightness in his chest loosens a little.

Work. That’s a safe thought. That’s somewhere Ashton can never touch him. That’s all Luke.

Luke sets Clifford down, much to Clifford’s discontent, and gets to his feet, a little unsteady. He pulls his phone off the floor with him - great, there’s a new crack running smoothly from the top left corner to the middle of the right hand side of the screen - and unlocks it, typing out a message to Michael and Calum with only slightly trembling fingers.

Me I think I just had my first soulmate experience.

taglist: @glitterlukey @hey-its-grey

chapter five

#lashton #malum #5sos fic #5sos slash #5sos fanfiction #jesus christ i cant lie ive been half asleep for the past 2 hours so i hope...this isnt trash #i guess we will find out in the morning #ALSO im really fuckng tired im sorry i know i am literally the worst but im going to respond to messages in the morning i truly am #literally 0.3 seconds away from falling asleep #i love u all i just want to do ur messages justice #especially u maggie INSPIRING me #idek if ur reading this but if u are

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