The Broken Ones (Cake FanFiction)

Chapter 13

A/N: IT'S BEEN TWO MONTHS WTF I AM SO SORRY. I'M NOT DEAD BTW. SO YEAH I KINDA FEEL BAD. BUT HEY I DID IT! (Pls don't kill me)

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Luke's POV

I sit cross legged on Calum's couch, staring at the slice of pizza on my paper plate in front of me. My stomach is in a knot, as it has been for months, and my appetite has been smaller recently. One can easily guess why. Calum on the other hand has blown through three pieces already. Mine remains untouched.

He glances over at me. "You okay?"

I flinch before answering and encompass myself in my arms more. "Yeah, just not very hungry," I murmur.

"Luke," he starts, "you and I both know you need to eat."

"But, Cal."

"Luke. Please. You need to build back up some strength," he says firmly, his chocolate eyes burning into my blue ones.

I sigh. I've been numb and scared and weak for so long, I feel as though I forgot what hunger feels like. It's just another misery I have to live with.

I squirm under Calum's gaze. Defeated, I start to nibble at the pizza. Calum turns back to his own slice once he sees me eating something. After one slice I already feel sick.

"I'm done," I mumble and push my plate away from me. Calum stares at me with concern, but shakes his head and pretends to not be worried.

"Okay," he says simply.

I slouch back into the couch and exhale loudly, my stomach churning as I do so. It takes every bit of me to not bend over and vomit. Bile rises to my mouth, but I swallow it down. The sour taste burns my throat.

"I'm going to go rest some more," I say to Calum as he cleans up the plates and pizza box. I feel bad. I should be helping him clean up.

He nods and I slowly rise to my feet. I walk out of the room and, once I'm out of ear shot, bolt up the stairs and into the bathroom. I flip the toilet seat up and lean over the bowl. I vomit the instant I do so. It keeps coming: the pizza, the water, the remnants from meals days ago. I can't help it. I want to keep it down, but I can't no matter how hard I try. My body is too weak and sick to hold food. I've starved it and let it be abused too many times.

Once I feel the last of the bile pass through my lips, I flush the toilet and stay seated on the bathroom floor. The same floor I passed out on last night. I close the lid of the toilet and collapse on top of it. I sob.

"I'm sorry," I cry, but I don't know who I'm saying sorry to anymore.

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Calum's POV

I throw the plates into the garbage and sit down on a bar stool. My head has been a mess all day. Ashton and Michael poking fun at Luke caused most of it. I place my face in my palms and sigh. I can't make up my mind about this broken boy. One part of me longs to reach out and help him, but the other part of me knows I'm even more broken and will just hurt him. This side begs to leave him alone. I keep flipping back and forth, unsure of what's helping Luke. Now, I let him go with barely finishing a slice of pizza. I wanted to sit him down and force more into him. I wanted to talk more. I wanted to make him feel valid. I wanted to help. But I didn't.

I have no idea where he has disappeared to. He's quiet now, no movement coming from upstairs. My voices in my head are arguing again over what I should do about it.

Just stay here, he's fine. You'd just fuck him up more.

Go check it out. He might be hurting. Nothing will happen.

Back and forth they go. It's like a war inside my mind. It hurts my head. I can't take it anymore.

"Shut up!" I scream into my hands, tears burning my eyes, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

I slam my hands on the bar, the glasses of liquor behind it clanking together. Finally, I can't take it anymore and I start marching up the stairs to do lord knows what. My feet pound into the carpet as I reach my room and fall onto my bed. Frustrated tears fall from my eyes, staining my pillow.

What the hell am I going to do with Luke Hemmings? What am I going to do with this boy who had big, bright blue eyes that always pretended to smile? What am I going to do with the boy that waltzed into my life randomly? What am I going to do with him?

All of the sudden, I hear something slam down. I sit bolt upright. Muffled noises echo throughout the halls and in between the walls.

Check it out.

I dig crescents into my palms with my fingernails because of my stressful thoughts.

"Check it out," I whisper to myself before my thoughts can say otherwise. I walk out of my room, wiping at my teary eyes. The bathroom light is on. I stand outside of the door, my hand resting on it.

Knock. What are you waiting for?

I knock gently. The muffled noises stop the second my knuckle touches the door.

"Luke?" I practically whisper.

"G-go away," he chokes out.

My heart shatters in my chest like a bullet going through glass. He sounds so helpless and scared. So scared.

"Luke, please let me in," I say, jiggling the doorknob. "I want to help."

My mind starts fighting against itself again. I shake my head violently.

"But C-Cal," he starts and I stop him.

"Luke, let me in right now. We need to talk. I don't care what you think. I need to be in there. You need to listen to me," I say.

The door unlocks.

I open it slowly and feel my eyes swell up at the sight of the crippled boy in front of me. His gray eyes, rimmed with red, stare blankly at me. His hair is flat and pushed against his forehead with sweat. His skin his pale and sickly. And he's so, so skinny. How have I never realized how skinny he really is?

"Luke," I murmur softly.

"I'm sorry, Cal. I couldn't do it. I can't eat. I just..." He trails off, more tears filling his eyes.

"Luke, look at me," I say and he gazes at me with his sad, broken eyes. "Listen to what I say. Don't you ever apologize for this. None of this is your fault," I tell him and his lip quivers. He starts to cry again.

Without even thinking, I grab him and pull him into a hug. I wrap my legs around him, encompassing his body with mine. "Just let it out," I whisper to him.

He sobs onto my shirt, his tears soaking through the material.

I hug him harder, and the voices don't protest.

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You like? I'm finally back to writing after like fifty years whoop. Still feel guilty but oh well.

~J