Stay (Punk Luke Hemmings)

Chapter 17

*it is worth noting i didn't have anyone proof read this and i didn't do that either, i just wanted to put something up for you guys. im sorry i havent updated in so long and im gonna try really hard to update tomorrow too to make up for the long hiatus of sorts.*

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not repressing Luke anymore, maybe it’s just the fact that he decided a tank top would be a good idea tonight, or maybe the fact that he’s cockier than usual on stage tonight, but the more I watch him, the more convinced I am that he’s the best looking person I will ever meet. Standing in front of the barrier, camera in hands, I can’t seem to focus on anything besides him.

The way he smirks over at me after a high jump tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. When he pushes his hair back in a rough shove, he smiles knowingly. I kind of want to punch him again just for the fact that he knows what he does to me. But I don’t have to push that part of myself back anymore. The part of me that kept him through all this time is finally free. That part is scarred and bruised but not gone.

There’s just enough light still illuminating the stadium to cast a soft glow over everything. It should make him look softer, less sharp, but it doesn’t. Luke still looks hard, like the edge of a knife. His guitar reflects the fading sunlight with every movement, mesmerizing the thousands of people watching. Or maybe it’s just me mesmerized, because I know that lip bite and smirk are meant for me.

I lift my camera up, contemplating him through the lens. Luke stands out against the blurry background, stadium behind him just a fuzzy mess. Looking down at his guitar, his eyelashes brush against his skin, long and thick. I remember how soft they were, untangled and untouched before my fingers skimmed against them.

Someone bumps into me, breaking me out of my thoughts. It was probably a good thing, considering the set was almost over and I’d been focusing too much on Luke. I snapped photos of Michael mid jump, Calum on top of a speaker, looking over the crowd triumphantly. Ashton’s twirl of the drum sticks was caught as well, the camera managing to capture the grace of the movement.

The pounding of the music reaches a crescendo, before stopping completely. With one last ear-piercing scream from the audience, the boys exit the stage. I gather my things, consolidating all my photography equipment into one bag.  As the stage crews swarm the stage, I make my way through the crowd in front of the barrier, my pass bouncing against my chest as I walk.

Back stage is just as crazy as in front, security and stage crews and sound techs all swarming around in hurried droves. After doing this more than a dozen times, I know what to do. I make my way over to an enormous speaker tucked into a corner, an extra in case of technical failure. It has tape designs all over it, the ‘x’ courtesy of Michael, the rocket from Ashton, and a smiley face from Harry. I clamber up the speaker, crossing my legs and settling down on the top. Tugging my notebook out of my bag, I flip through the messy pages. My notes on the boys, the beginnings of articles, sprawl across the page, my writing half loopy and half sharp scrawl. I wish I had headphones to block out the muted buzz from the crowd and the clamber of everyone trying to get the stage ready for the 1D boys, but they weren’t in my bag.

Finally settling on a clean page, I rummage around for my pen.

“Need this?” A black pen is dropped on top of the stark white page.

“Thanks.” I say automatically, looking up to see Mark standing in front of me. My back straightens up as I realize I’m looking at the closest thing I have to a boss on this tour. “Oh, hi, Mark, sorry I didn’t notice you.”

He smiles at me. “It’s alright, Andy, just coming to check up on you. How’s everything been going?”

“Great, I got a lot of excellent photos tonight, there should be a new article coming out within a few days.”