player ♚ lrh

04 - hate

Luke Hemmings hated Calum Hood.

To some extent, he kind of hated everyone, so it wasn't much of a shock. But he held a special, small place of bitterness inside him for the dark haired boy. Luke couldn't properly explain exactly how it happened; he had his reasons, sure, but the root of their unwavering issue with one another remained a bit hazy.

In all honesty, Luke was pretty sure it was his fault. But that being said, both he and Calum knew it was an admission that would never see the light of day.

The way Luke saw it was that it was too far gone—their relationship, that is. He wasn't going to hand out half-assed apologies for mistakes he didn't care about to salvage relationships he had no interest in maintaining. Whether that was ignorant, or immature—he didn't know, nor did he care to find out. Luke didn't care about a lot of things, actually, and he liked it that way. It seemed easier for him to be this way, and he would stick with it until it inevitably bit him in the ass.

The thing about Luke and Calum is that they were both—undeniably and unfortunately—males. What had started as a mutual dislike for one another has blossomed into a bitter resentment over the years, and anyone could see that the boys' copious amounts of testosterone was to blame. They liked to compete and they liked to win. It was a potent combination, especially when the lawless place both boys frequented was taken into account.

But Luke didn't like to think about all of that; instead he channeled his focus into the simple, cold truth of the matter—he just hated Calum Hood.

Up until a few weeks ago, neither of the boys had seen or heard from each other in almost half a year—Luke's untimely absence being the reason for this. Luke has always been impulsive, and the second things started to irritate him a little too much, he was gone without so much as a warning. It was probably a good thing for them to be far away from each other, but Luke has obligations here. So, despite the negative emotions his return has received from a few select people, he was back, and he was here to stay.

Things had changed, clearly, but his feelings about the tanned boy with the collarbone tattoos hadn't.

"Thought you didn't drink?"

Luke glanced down at his hands, where a forgotten whiskey glass of clear liquid sits untouched in his fingers. "I don't."

The other boy sighed, looking from the bored blond to the glass in his hands. "Whatcha got there, then?"

Swirling the contents, Luke shrugged. He probably wasn't going to drink it, and he didn't even know why he poured himself a glass. It sounded good at the time, but now he was hesitant. He didn't feel like explaining this to the skeptical boy with the light brown curls that sat opposite him.

So, he didn't. "Does it matter?"

Pursing his lips, the boy held back an eye roll. "Guess not," he muttered.

He'd felt like he'd been walking on eggshells around Luke since he first got back, and he didn't really know how to act around him. Their conversations were tense, and he was still trying to navigate his friend's bored, almost withdrawn, attitude.

Truthfully, he wasn't even sure if Luke was his friend anymore. He'd become rather hard to read.

"So," he cleared his throat. "Have you talked to the guys?"

"No," Luke mumbled. "I'm not going to."

This time the other boy really did roll his eyes. His friend was a child. A 6'4" child with stubble, sure, but a child nonetheless. "Luke, come on," he groaned. "What did you expect to happen?"