#my brand = naming emo lashton fics after sad noah kahan songs

[clumsyclifford]

though you make me balanced (you can’t make me whole)

tell me it won't hurt; now i, i'm your passenger. Abruptly, Luke shoulders Ashton’s hand off, and immediately he regrets it, wants to take it back, to grab Ashton’s hand and replace it where it had been. Ashton pulls his hand away, and Luke starts to cry. (Luke is not okay.)

TWs: suicidal thoughts, discussion of suicidal thoughts, i really cannot stress enough that a lack of will to live is central to this fic, PLEASE approach with caution. also implied depression, drinking, and general angst. title from passenger by noah kahan.

note: this fic is in the same ‘verse as i’ll be your eyes (you be my face), and though the order doesn’t matter, you may wanna read that one first. (tumblr link for whoever prefers that for whatever reason)

read it on ao3 here

~

Luke hides in his room. He doesn’t want Ashton to see that he’s drinking, or know that he’s drunk, or know what he’s thinking about. Ashton will be concerned, and Luke cares far too much about the smile on Ashton’s face to let it crease.

Maybe that’s what they’re here for, but it doesn’t mean Luke has to like it.

Unfortunately, the world does not work in precisely the ways Luke wishes it would, and Ashton comes in anyway, louder in Luke’s head than he probably is in real life. Luke looks up, and the world spins. It occurs to him, distantly, that he’s drunk a lot tonight, and possibly he should stop.

“Jesus, Luke,” Ashton says. Luke stares, squints. Ashton’s face looks concerned, which is exactly what Luke was trying to avoid. Aghast, if Luke were more eloquent.

“Just Luke’s fine,” Luke mutters. Ashton crouches down, which reminds Luke that he is on the floor, and that’s not the best place to be. He could stand up, but the last time he tried that he nearly tipped over.

“How much did you drink?” Ashton says, prying the bottle out of Luke’s hand. Luke reaches for it half-heartedly, but Ashton holds it away from him.

“I’m a grown man,” Luke protests weakly. “I can drink as much as I like.”

“How much, Luke.”

“Well.” Luke thinks. Tries to think. “It was full when I started.”

“Full,” Ashton repeats, sounding like he’s trying not to be horrified. “Luke. Okay. Come on. Get up. Let’s get you some water and then you can go to sleep.”

“No,” Luke says, remembering violently why he’d been drinking. “I don’t want to. Give it back.”

“No.”

“Give it, Ashton. You’re not my fucking boss. Boss of me. Give it.”

“Stop it,” Ashton says firmly. “I’m going to go pour this out and get you some water.”

“I don’t fucking want water,” Luke snaps. 

“Hey,” Ashton says, curving one hand around the back of Luke’s neck. He’s sturdy and reliable, and this feels familiar. Luke starts to sink into it. “Take a deep breath.”

“Don’t do that,” Luke whines. “I don’t want to feel better. I want to drink.”

“You’re already drunk.”

“And I wanna stay that way, you fucking — get off me!” Abruptly, Luke shoulders Ashton’s hand off, and immediately he regrets it, wants to take it back, to grab Ashton’s hand and replace it where it had been. Ashton pulls his hand away, and Luke starts to cry.

“Hey, hey,” Ashton says softly, although he doesn’t reach out again, which makes Luke cry harder. “Okay. Hey. It’s okay. I’m here.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Luke says through gasps of breath. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, do you still love me?”

“Of course I still love you,” Ashton says, in a voice that’s both reassuring and unequivocal, like it’s obvious. Like Luke should have known that. But how could Luke have known? How could he ever consider himself worthy of Ashton’s continued love? Already he’s overstayed his welcome here, if there’d ever been welcome to begin with. Ashton can say what he wants, but Luke is imposing. He hasn’t “moved in”; he’s a glorified houseguest and Ashton is his world-weary host and they’re both so tired, all the time. Ashton must be tired of Luke by now. Luke certainly is.

“You can touch me,” Luke whimpers, grasping for Ashton’s arm despite the way his vision blurs in and out, like a camera trying and failing to focus. Immediately Ashton settles onto his knees and pulls Luke towards him, and this time Luke really does melt. Ashton touches Luke like he loves him, holds him like he’s this piece of artwork made of glass, like he’ll break from a stiff breeze. Luke lets his head fall onto Ashton’s shoulder, still kind of crying. The guilt from the tear stains working their way into Ashton’s shirt stacks itself on top of all of Luke’s other troubles.

“Talk to me, Luke,” Ashton murmurs. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how to help you.”

“You can’t help me,” Luke whispers. That’s not exactly true, though, is it? Ashton’s already helping him. Just by being here, right now. By letting Luke in. By gathering Luke in his arms when he cries and just sitting here with him.

But it’s not help if the problem isn’t going away. It’s just postponing the inevitable.

“I can try,” Ashton says, a very Ashton thing to say. Luke’s never met anyone so tenacious. Ashton will never let a problem beat him. It’s one of the most admirable things about him.

“ You can’t,” Luke sobs, and realizes he’s crying more now, “you can’t, every day you keep me alive but eventually —” 

“Don’t say that.”

“You can’t save me forever.” Luke buries his face into the crook of Ashton’s neck. He can’t see the look on Ashton’s face, but he doesn’t want to. It’ll be hurt, no doubt. Fear, probably. And that specific brand of dogged determination that Ashton encompasses.

“I can,” Ashton says quietly. “And I fucking will, Luke.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Bullshit. I need you here.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not — I’m nothing. I’m not worth it,” Luke manages. “I’m not worth anything or anyone I’m just a piece of shit who’s in a band that got lucky and I’m the most replaceable person in the entire fucking world, Ashton, and every single day is so fucking hard, and I don’t see the point.”

“Luke.” Somehow, Luke’s name on Ashton’s tongue sounds like a prayer, a distress call, a promise. Somehow, when Ashton says his name it’s imbued with love. Luke cries harder, gasping irregularly for breath. “Do me a favor and take a deep breath.”

“I can’t,” Luke says desperately, clinging to Ashton’s shirt like a lifeline. One of Ashton’s arms snakes around Luke’s back and his hand makes its way to Luke’s hair, scratching rhythmically at the nape of his neck. Luke shivers.

“With me,” Ashton says soothingly. “You can. Come on. You can feel me breathing, right? Deep breath in.” Luke feels the way Ashton’s chest rises with the breath, hears the steady inhale by his ear. Struggling, he manages some shaky halfway imitation. “And out. That’s it. Again.”

Slowly, painstakingly, Luke catches his breath, and Ashton doesn’t waver, counting him through deep breaths in and out until all of Luke’s senses have tunneled in on Ashton. Eyes closed, face hidden, there’s nothing else in the entire world but Ashton, and the cotton of his shirt twisted into Luke’s fingers, the damp skin of his neck where Luke’s tears have left their mark, the slow, steady rumble of his voice in Luke’s ear, the rise and fall of his chest, one hand carding through the ends of Luke’s hair, the other a warm weight against his waist.

There’s a war waging in Luke’s head, because half of him is still at the edge of the cliff, chanting furiously for him to jump, louder than it’s ever been, terrifyingly loud; not, as Luke had hoped, numbed by the drink, but bolstered from it. But the other half of Luke is all Ashton’s. This is it, he thinks dimly, this is all I am, and all I live for, but he can’t tell that to Ashton, can’t say that some days — most days — Ashton is the only reason Luke brakes at red lights and resurfaces in swimming pools. That’s clingy, desperate. That puts Luke’s life in Ashton’s hands, and that’s a responsibility Ashton doesn’t want or need.

“Are you with me still?” Ashton whispers, once Luke’s breathing has steadied.

Luke doesn’t want to respond. If he answers, the moment breaks; Ashton’s calm, collected voice will be slashed in half with Luke’s, which is scratchy and needy and tired. Everything is fine as long as Luke pretends Ashton is all that’s left of the world. Maybe there’s been an apocalypse, and Ashton’s the lone survivor; maybe the room is in shambles around him, maybe there’s debris everywhere, maybe Luke can just stay here forever and never open his eyes and keep pretending until he runs out of air.

“Luke, love. We don’t have to talk about it now, okay? I can get you a glass of water, and you —”

“Don’t go,” Luke begs, hating the desperation in his voice. “Don’t leave. Please. Don’t.”

“Okay,” Ashton says immediately. “Okay, breathe, Luke, I won’t leave. You want to come to the kitchen with me? You wanna go straight to sleep?”

Luke shakes his head. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and remember that there’s a world out there. 

“I’m scared,” he whispers, and Ashton takes a sharp breath in, and Luke knows that Ashton is suddenly scared, too.

“What are you scared of?”

“I don’t know. So much.” There’s supposed to be glue in Luke’s throat, imprisoning his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but now it’s unstuck and there’s no way to stop the flood. “I’m scared that there’s not going to be an apocalypse and — the fucking world is still going to be out there, expecting things from me that I can’t give, and scared that you’re going to leave me alone here, and that you’re going to hate me for loving you as much as I do, and I’m scared that I’m going to give up, one day, and that there won’t be anyone to remind me not to. Ashton. Do you know how important you are? Do you fucking know? Do you know how many bad songs I’ve written trying to tell you how important you are to me?” Opening his eyes means facing the real world, the world he knows is still there, but something feels more urgent. Dizzily he picks his head up off Ashton’s shoulder and blinks some light back into his vision, and though it means he’s momentarily blinded, he clumsily finds Ashton’s eyes and locks onto them. “I’m sorry for how much I love you, Ashton, I really fucking am.”

“Don’t say sorry for that,” Ashton says quietly. 

“I am,” Luke says bracingly, “because it’s a burden —”

“You’re not a burden, Luke.”

“I’m —”

“Luke. Stop. You’re not a burden. To me, ever. Doesn’t matter how much you drink, or cry, or how many times you want to kill yourself.” Luke jerks instinctively, but Ashton keeps him in place, the hand in Luke’s hair stalled but still cradling his head. “This isn’t conditional. And I’m going to be here, always. You have to know that, okay?” 

“You aren’t.”

“I will be. I want to be. Can you believe me on something? One thing?” Ashton asks, the light of his eyes grounding Luke. Luke nods uncertainly. “Okay. I love you as much as you love me. And keeping you around is my number one priority.”

“That’s a shitty priority.”

“If it were me, would you?” Ashton challenges him, and it’s not even a question, really.

“I’d fucking do anything,” Luke breathes. “Don’t even think about it.”

Ashton presses his forehead to Luke’s. “Whatever you’re feeling right now about me, that’s what I’m feeling about you. I promise you.”

Except he’s not, because Luke is nothing, not even the shell of a man; he’s just nerve endings and love for Ashton, glued together with the feeling of Ashton’s breath on his face, Ashton’s cooking in the morning, Ashton’s laugh when Luke tells a terrible joke, Ashton’s unapologetic grin when he does a perfect play-through on drums.

“Trust me,” Ashton reminds him. Luke swallows thickly and nods once.

“I’m so tired,” he says hoarsely.

“Get in bed,” Ashton suggests gently. “I can get some water and aspirin and be back in two minutes.”

“You’ll come back,” Luke says nervously.

“Luke,” Ashton says, with no exasperation, just a sweet, sad smile, “when are you going to understand that I’ll always come back? As long as you’re around, you’re the one I come back to.”

Something in the sincerity of Ashton’s voice, the way he says it so matter-of-factly, makes Luke feel safe enough to release his grip on Ashton. The shirt is wrinkled from Luke’s grasp, and Ashton’s whole shoulder is wet, drenched in Luke’s tears, but Ashton kisses his forehead and says, “Be right back.”

He goes. Luke heaves himself to his feet and collapses, mostly, onto his bed, twisting until he’s sort of under the blanket. He’s cold and exhausted, and all of his skin feels like it’s too small for his body, stretching thin to keep all of his insides where they belong. Ashton comes back, like he said he would, and puts the water and aspirin on the bedside table.

Without a word he climbs into bed, pulls the covers back to tuck them both in, and wraps his arms around Luke. Luke sighs. He ducks his head into Ashton’s chest, shuffles closer until there’s nothing between them. Ashton presses a lingering kiss to Luke’s forehead.

“Sometimes,” Luke says quietly, “I think you’re the only thing holding me together.” Sometimes, I know you are.

Ashton squeezes him tight for a second. “I fall apart without you, you know that?”

Luke huffs. “We’re well-suited.”

“Yeah,” Ashton murmurs. “We are.”