Strike (Cake) [Completed] (#Wattys2017)

8: The End

                 

Most of Luke's weekend was spent on couches: office couch, Ashton's couch, and his own couch. If he felt like going into campus to work, he'd bus to his office, not bothering with his car, and work for maybe two hours, sitting where Calum always sat. Or used to sit. He didn't know which yet.

              Tired of that, he would either go home, or call Ashton and see if he could go over to his place. Ash would usually say yes, although once on Sunday, Ashton said he would be busy all morning with a conference with the Speech department of the university. Which didn't make any sense, because the university almost never held conferences Sunday morning—people went to church. And unless Ashton had decided he wanted to teach Speech instead of or alongside but separate from his Debate courses, Luke would have been asked to come to the conference as well, as the Speech and Debate departments were essentially the same, just with two different chairs. But either way Luke didn't mind. He actually felt like he was getting in Ashton's way a little. It was just nice to have someone to talk to who seemed to understand so well. So well. Ashton had every piece of advice to possibly give. It was like he'd been there or something.

              So Sunday morning, and those few other times when Ashton wasn't home, like Monday when he taught an Intro to Reasoning course for freshmen, Luke would curl up or lay back on his own couch. Sometimes he'd play guitar, sometimes he'd turn up his stereo with his phone plugged in and play along. Once he danced, jumping around and singing like he was at a concert. But usually he would just sit there, some drink in his hand, not enough to get him wasted but enough to block out the thoughts and the deep blue and black feelings.

              He had a paper to work on—he was a graduate student, after all. But he didn't do it. The topic reminded him too much of...

              The boy he wasn't sure whether he loved or was in love with. The boy who wasn't a boy, but a mind and a body and a soul and a voice, falling in line, step by academic step, with his own. Falling in line. Falling in—

              Luke jerked his body forward, spilling some of the coffee he was drinking to help with his headache. Today was Tuesday. It was 9:30. Class started at 10:05. Oh shit.

              He was up, showered, dressed, and heading out the door in twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes was not going to be enough to bus over. His keys jingled as he hit the unlock button for his car, shoved his stuff through to the passenger seat, and started driving.

...

Calum tried to shut out the sound of some kid tapping his pencil on the table in the lecture hall. Everyone was there. Except for Luke. Class started in...forty seconds. Luke was never late.

              Calum hoped that maybe a sub had been called in or that Luke just wouldn't show up and they could leave. It wasn't that he didn't want to be in class. He just didn't want to deal with Luke right now. He didn't want to deal with all the different ways he felt when he was around or talking to Luke.

              He felt angry at some of what Luke had said. He felt bad for feeling so angry. He felt some weird magnetism that made it so he couldn't concentrate when Luke was there unless he made himself believe that Luke was speaking only to him, which is why he seemed to do well in the office. He felt like he wanted to go back to the office. But he was angry. But he was proud when he was with Luke. But he was sad. But he was confused when he was with Luke. But he was sorry. But he was scared because there was another feeling coming through that he couldn't identify yet. But he wanted to get over all of that. And he didn't know if seeing Luke would help with that or make it harder.