fight club. lh ; mc.

cinco.

"It was kinda shitty of you to not accept Mike's apology, don't you think?" Calum asks once he collapses onto Luke's mattress with a bottle of beer in one hand, phone in the other as he swings his jean clad legs over Luke's bare thighs.

It's eight in the morning and Luke is barely awake, but Calum is already on the sauce and overly chirpy and it's creeping Luke out.

"Aw, cute, you're on nickname basis now? Didn't realise you were so serious." Luke speaks sarcastically at Calum, and the tan boy rolls his eyes, kicking the younger blonde in his thigh.

"He's sucked me off, I'd say we're comfortable enough with each other for nicknames, right?" Calum grins, this giant, shit eating grin that Luke just wants to punch clean off his features, "Seriously though, he probably did just word it wrong, but he meant it, I'm sure of it."

It's Luke's turn to roll his eyes this time and he scoffs, "He practically said 'sorry for beating your ass, you can't handle it', Cal. I wasn't accepting that sorry excuse for an apology, especially when I never even asked for one, or expected one, in the first place. Our job is to knock the shit out of each other so that we get paid at the end of the week, and he's trying to say sorry like we're mates who fell out. He's a fucking idiot."

Calum blinks at him for a slow minute, his dark eyes dancing, "You need to get laid, man. I mean seriously, you're cranky the whole damn time, you need to chill out."

Luke climbs rather ungracefully into Calum's lap then, pushing the boy until he's lying flat on the bed, knocking his half empty beer bottle to the ground with a dull thud, "You're just saying that because you want my cock in you, right?" his whispers are harsh as his breath fans over Calum's face, but there's a present smirk on his face.

"Well, you're not wrong.." Calum heaves out a breathy laugh, rolling his hips up into Luke's to prove his point.

Luke cocks his head to the side, not even entertaining Calum, "Strip then."

-----

Ashton notices the bruises on Luke's neck the second he steps foot in the building, but he only chooses to comment once Luke's stripped himself of his shirt and he sees the harsh nail marks blooming on his pale skin, "Now, you can't tell me those are war wounds, Hemmings."

Luke at least has the decency to blush and look sheepish about it. He shrugs like it isn't a big deal, "Calum's always been a bit of a slut for me."

"Oh, totally," Ashton barks out a laugh, and his voice is laced with sarcasm "ever since you were fifteen and you had that shitty fringe and you actually thought you were a decent guitar player."

Luke knocks his shoulder into Ashton's, laughing with him, "Shut up. We were just letting off some steam, okay? Call it friends helping friends out."

The curly headed boy laughs louder this time, "Okay, Luke. You're training with Styles today, make sure you manage to aim away from his mouth this time, we don't need that boy having more teeth knocked out."

-----

Michael shows up at Luke's door again that night, and Luke honestly hopes this isn't going to become a reoccurring thing, because he's already sick of having the younger boy's wide eyes raking his body every time his skin is showing.

Luke knows that Michael's eyes are hot on the mouth shaped bruises all over his neck and torso, and he sees something that looks a lot like jealousy flash through the red head's meadow green eyes.

"So," Michael starts, pulling his bag further up on his shoulder, once he's decided he wants to stop ogling, "you didn't want an apology, that's cool, I'll keep it to myself. Calum told me you weren't totally wooed by it, which was obvious as fuck anyway, but I --"

"You ramble a load of shit, Clifford. Are you going to come in or what?" Luke's already walking into the apartment, leaving the door open as an invitation for Michael to come in if he so wishes.

He obviously does, because the door is shutting and Luke can feel wide eyes on the back of his head as he wanders into the kitchenette and puts the kettle on.

Michael goes to open his mouth again and Luke's stopping him before he even has the chance to utter a word, "Me and you aren't going to get on, okay? We're not pals, we don't fucking have to like each other, and in case it wasn't already obvious, I don't fucking like you anyway. I'm not interested in being your friend, at all. Every time you open your mouth I actually have the physical urge to punch you, or gag you with my cock, whichever would shut you up the fastest. Get me when I say this, you're annoying as fuck and I don't want you talking to me or coming to my door. Are we clear, or?"

It's as if Michael's persona changes completely in the time it takes for Luke to have his outburst, because he's gone from the nervous, babbling, quiet mess he was ten minutes ago, to this boy with a cocky smirk on his face and his pierced brow cocked, his stance defensive as he crosses his arms over his chest, like the exact boy Luke had met a week prior, "You absolutely have no idea how fucked your face is going to be by the time I'm done with you on Friday, Hemmings." He scoffs, already making his way towards the door, "You have no idea what you've done."

The door slams shut and Luke flinches, because he has every idea what he's done.

He's gotten himself killed.