𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑⁰¹ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ✓

⁵⁸the muse's muse

luke

I feel as though the air's been grabbed out from my throat, and my lungs burn like a fresh fire; my skin's damp and shining off sweat, my eyes trained straight forward at the TV silently playing a German action movie with Dutch subtitles.

I hate running, especially on treadmills in an air-conditioned gym where you can't really sweat properly, so you just end up panting like a dog. But the band's management decided we needed it, so the boys and I put on our best gym clothes and made our way to the hotel's gym.

A bodyguard and our trainer came along, so it looks a little awkward from everyone else's point of view that these four guys have come with their own fancy guys.

The lady beside me on the elliptical keeps eyeing me whenever I turn her direction, giving me a flirtatious smile as if I came down to the gym to pick girls up.

Ten minutes walking, five jogging, and another ten running is surely making me sweat now, and I roll my eyes and groan whenever I hear our trainer say "Keep it up, Luke!" from the back.

I shove a forceful finger on the big red stop button and feel the tracks quickly stop, the sound of my running fading into sharp walks, then soon stopping.

"What happened? You okay?" The trainer asks.

"Just a bit winded," I pant, shaking my head and wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. I take a seat on the stopped treadmill and grabbing the water bottle on the floor, chugging as much water as my body can take.

My legs feel as if they're about to detach and start walking away on their own, probably counting this much running as abuse. My arm just wants to put the bottle down and do nothing, the push-ups and weights from earlier starting to take effect.

I find myself counting down the days until when I'd return home... whatever that means. LA? My house? My dog? Someone in particular? And at times I just settle with the fact that planes, airports, and concert stages just may be my home.

We've got a few interviews tonight before we perform, then we fly out to the next city for another set of performances. It's been this way after we embarked from our short-lived Christmas/New Years break, and I notice that I'm writing more.

Something about the evening of Clem's birthday was inspiring enough to churn a couple of rough songs out of me. I'm looking forward to the thought of completing them in our studio in LA, work on them until they're fit to perfection.

"Luke, Calum, you can go," Our trainer says, patting Calum in the back and making his way to focus on Mike and Ash. "Get your key cards, rest,"

I sigh in relief, taking my bottle and retying my hair as Cal and I take our key cards from our bodyguard who's starting to walk with us.

Jamal, I think his name is. I only remember now after truly noticing how his features look alike with Middle Eastern people, hooked noses and thick brows, which I recall Clem ranting about before, saying how she loved drawing them.

She'd said their features were beautiful. Not in the obvious way that everybody's thought to think, but in a subtle and gentle way that whispers I am beauty made for art. She added that it's the kind artists favour, like doe eyes, bumpy noses, and bushy brows.

She said she saw this beauty in her mother's lips, how they're quite full and cornered in the cupid's bow; in her father's almost straight brow line that makes him look stricter than he actually is; and in the shape of my eyes that "holds the most beautiful hues of blues I've ever seen", she whispered.

I would've kissed her if only we weren't right in the middle of a restaurant on lunch hour.

"You can stay here, we'll be alright," Cal tells Jamal, and I can tell the latter hesitates, pausing on his place before returning to stand back.