BAD OMENS ✬ luke hemmings

5.1 | hits different

Luke used to believe he'd never step into this room again.

Yet, there he is.

He sits on her bed, with his hand in her own as she paints his nails pink as she rambles on about lord knows what– a book she read, the blond thinks, though he has since stopped paying attention as something else caught his focus and all the thoughts in his mind.

On the less frightening side of those thoughts, Aria looks so peaceful. Not only that, but she still looks like that fourteen-year-old girl Luke used to call a friend– no rolling of the eyes, scowling, or aggravating entitlement—just her. She's calmer, more relaxed as if she's wholly comfortable around him.

And in a sense, she is. Now hidden in the safety of her house with Luke, she doesn't have to worry as much about people seeing them together– making assumptions about whatever strange relationship they've formed – or plan her speech to Michael about how shit happens and claim that it's not a big deal. And it's not a big deal. Her friendship with Luke shouldn't be a big deal, but for some naive reason, it is.

Luke's stare doesn't drift, or falter, away from her – it hasn't in the past half an hour he's been at the house, let alone the past ten minutes he's spent with his hand in hers as she gives him a manicure: UV lamp and all.

Part of him is still trying to process everything that has occurred between them, like when Aria punched him or how she never had a civil conversation with him until weeks into their detention scheme. And now, Luke is supposed to accept that they're suddenly friends? After everything that has happened?

He's not complaining, god no, he can't do that. He hated himself when he started to like being around Aria; Luke hated himself when he missed her yelling at him – basked in that temporary glory when she stormed in that day during the Mock UN to spit her insults.

Moreso, the blond resented Calum when he discovered that his best friend had been so effortlessly accepted into Aria's inner circle. And a sliver of Luke still resents Calum for that; he still thinks that was unfair on top of a complete and utter betrayal.

But look at Luke now, falling into old patterns with Aria– who, for some reason, decided she doesn't hate him anymore. Maybe he should not be spending each waking moment wondering how or why they both got to this place. More importantly, Luke should not spend so much time looking at her or even considering what the voice in his mind keeps screaming at him– pushing him to believe.

The blond doesn't want to think about how soft or small her hands are compared to his.

He doesn't want to think about her smile, how heartwarming it is, or how he's come to like the smeared fading eyeliner adorning her eyes– those dark brown eyes he's looked into a thousand times before. Those eyes used to look at him with so much hate and indifference, now with unseen kindness and assurance behind them.

Luke doesn't want to think about how he wants to make her laugh – to see that smile and the rare content in Aria's eyes – and the proud feeling he gets from it.

Most of all, he doesn't want to think about how pretty she is – especially as she carefully paints his nails and rambles, the topic now shifting to her favourite albums of all time: Believe, Dangerous Woman, The Fame Monster, Teenage Dream, and so on.

Arai drops his hand and reaches for the other, a sign for Luke to place his hand into the UV lamp.

He looks around the bedroom, decorated with clutter, posters, and photos. The blond's gaze drifts to and lingers on the massive photo wall, which has practically tripled since the last time he saw it – almost four years ago. Some polaroids are too small to make out from the bed, but he can see the prints.