Stay (Punk Luke Hemmings)

Chapter 10

Moving easily through chords, Michael sits next to me, sitting on top of my feet, strumming his guitar absentmindedly, humming along with a song I don’t recognize, melancholy and beautiful.

Ashton has headphones in, tapping at his thighs along with whatever is in his ears, staring at the countryside zooming past us as the rain splatters chaotically against the window. Calum is playing fifa, and Luke is in his bunk, out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.

I’m supposed to be writing, the next segment of my life on the road with 5 Seconds of Summer due in 2 days, but it’s just not coming, despite the fact that I’m literally immersed in the experience, on their tour bus with them. The notepad in my lap has my scribbles all over it, words scratched out here and there, an article half formed, but I’m not even paying attention anymore, too busy listening to the song Michael’s messing around with, humming along quietly to. The feel of his humming reverberating through his entire body is comforting, but the song he’s playing sticks in the back of my head, bouncing around until I can’t take it anymore.

“What song is that?” I give up on trying to stay quiet, too intrigued with what Michael’s playing to pretend to write anymore.

He grins sloppily at me, lips half upturned, letting the last chord ring out, before going back into what I’m guessing is the chorus, half singing as he replies to me, flipping the hair that’s fallen down in his eyes back into place.

“A song we’re thinking about releasing soon.”

“A new one?”

“Nah, just one that’s been kept in the vault for a while that we’re finally ready to put out.” Michael is focusing on his fingerings, tapping his foot along with what he’s playing.

“What’s it called? Who wrote it? What’s it about?” Leaning towards him, I fire questions at Michael, who just smiles, turning back to the old acoustic in his hands. Its beat up, one I recognize from being with them since they were just a garage band playing at small clubs. There’s even a small nick I remember from when Michael banged it against a door frame on accident after Luke popped up behind him, scaring him from that creepy silent approach thing he was so good at.

“Luke wrote it, actually. He’s written a lot of stuff” Michael says nonchalantly, not looking up at me.

“Oh.” Deflating, I lean back against the arm of the couch where I was leaning, letting it go. I’m still curious, but I’m not sure I want to know the answers to any of my questions now. Knowing the inner workings of Luke’s mind isn’t a priority I’m willing to admit to anymore.

“It’s about you.”

Startled, I look up, catching Luke leaning against the entryway to the back of the bus where we’re all huddled, eyes zeroed in on me, hair still messy from sleep, shirt not even there, analyzing my reaction to his words.

Michael suddenly becomes incredibly interested in his guitar, bright red head bent over so he’s not looking at either of us. I swallow the lump that I didn’t expect in my throat, trying not to flinch at his expectant gaze, or let my eyes stray down to his chest, because if I see the tattoo I know was for me that he probably explains as just a fun mark, I’ll be even further gone.

He has more skin covered with ink than last time I saw him, and I’m not surprised about that. What I am surprised about is that he just admitted that to me. Some small part of me wonders if he’s saying this just to mess with my head some more, as if the thing against my door hadn’t caused more turbulence in my head than I could handle.

Not having a response to that I would ever want to say out loud, I just stare very determinedly at a spot on the wall somewhere above Luke’s shoulder, hoping this doesn’t start another fight. He’s watching me so carefully, looking for a flinch that I refuse to let him see.