𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 → 𝐥𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

51. you wouldn't choose me

saturday,
december 11th, 2020

EZRA GREYSTONE

The plethora of colourful bruises and bloodied cuts that decorate Luke's lovely face makes my heart swell in my chest.

I'm curled up in the cushioned chair beside his hospital bed, hugging my knees and my eyes are heavy because I've barely slept. It's hard to sleep when someone you care so much for is in agony and injured and laying there defenceless in a hospital bed.

I sigh, checking my watch. It's just gone 9am and when the sun started to rise earlier through the windows, I ensured to draw the curtains in fear of worsening Luke's headache once he wakes. The room we're in is cold with concrete walls and a tiled floor and it reeks of rubbing alcohol with a twinge of Luke Hemmings.

Calum came back after he ate during the night, then left again to get a good night's sleep back home when I assured him that Luke was fine. The tanned boy looked exhausted anyways, he deserved the rest. Myself on the other hand; I've been completely restless since I woke at 6am. I retained a few quick hours of shuteye beside Luke in the lumpy bed, in which he held me close all night and I couldn't complain because I'm just happy that he's getting the rest he needs.

Last night wasn't easy by any means. Luke was vomiting quite a bit which only worsened his migraines. The nurse on call had to come back every hour to replace his sick bowl, for he was far too disoriented to get up and hurry to the bathroom every time. He was dizzy, barely formulating his sentences properly but he pushed through it like a soldier.

It fucking scared me, to say the least. Having to witness such an eloquent person struggle to talk normally was borderline disturbing.

A breath of relief flows through me as Luke stirs beneath the sheets, taking a fist to his eye and rubbing it tiredly. He grumbles, followed by a yawn before he cautiously opens his eyes. He squints, almost flinches at his surroundings even though it really isn't that bright in here with the lights off and the curtains pulled.

I stretch my legs out, leaning over to carefully take his roughed up hand in mine. I frown as I examine his lengthy fingers. The skin is split, knuckles splattered with hints of dried blood and it scares me that I don't know if it's Luke's or someone else's. I twiddle with his fingers, careful not to disturb his cuts and he sighs. I can sense his stare on me and he grunts in discomfort when he shifts on the mattress.

"How are you feeling?" I whisper, hyper-aware of his head injury as I continue to gaze at his big hand.

"Ezra," he mumbles and I involuntarily hum, twisting one of his thick, silver rings around his finger, "Look at me."

I blink, my eyes drifting up to meet his dull ones and my heart almost snaps in two. He looks so wrecked; exhausted and beaten and I wish I could take all his pain away. Despite finding the violent side of him quite unnerving, I still feel terrible that he has to suffer and I sort of wish I never saw him like that. Because although the butterflies still swarm crazily in my tummy when he so much as looks at me, every time I glance at him I picture the undying fury on his usually relaxed face and those angry eyes of his he wore back in the boxing ring.

"What's wrong, baby?" he asks me softly, voice all raspy and tickled with a husk.

I melt; he's here lying in a hospital bed with serious injuries and he's concerned about me.

All I do is offer a slight smile, trying to relax the crinkle between my brows. I glide my thumbs over his sore knuckles, looking at him as he watches our hands. He doesn't even flinch at my touch on his scars, instead linking our fingers together with parted lips and glimmering irises. He flickers his eyes back up at me, licking his dry lips.