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sun, stars, sky (where am I?) - a FaC playlist
Luke had known keeping his promises would be harder seven-hundred miles away where he could hide behind the smokescreen of a phone call and the occasional video chat, but reality didn't quite sink in until a few days after his arrival back in Barcelona. The early September sun set fire to the horizon, casting his apartment in soft shadows, the darkness dancing along the borderline between light enough to see by and dim enough that he should probably switch a lamp on. It was still warm outside, at least by English standards, but the cold of the kitchen tile seeped through the thin fabric of his trousers and goosebumps pricked up across his bare arms. Music hummed through his phone speakers, some kind of folk rock that he'd put on when he got home from work just to fill the silence. It was just white noise, now, muffled as if his phone was buried underneath a heavy coat when really it was just on the countertop above where he sat, next to the knife he'd hastily put down when the first tears had dripped onto the blade and the thought had crossed his mind of what it would look like if the droplets were red.
He'd missed them today.
Of course, he'd missed them the second he got into the taxi to the airport, but it had been overshadowed somewhat by the promise of 'forever' still floating around, and the lingering tension of Sam wanting to come out to his mum, and, most of all, the fact they were all lying to Tom. It wasn't just lying, now, though; it was becoming harder to even keep up their usual level of communication, so scared of accidentally letting something slip, and the other had to have noticed it but hadn't said anything yet. Maybe he'd realised Luke wasn't worth the effort if he couldn't get the same level of care in return. Not that Luke didn't care, he did, he just couldn't-
God, this was a mess. One of his own creation, but the point remained. If he'd just kept his mouth shut in the first place, before Edinburgh, where would they be now? Better, right? Surely it would be better. Not necessarily for him, all that uncertainty would still be festering inside him like an infected wound, but no real good had come out of it for anyone. It wasn't like he was happier now. Just...empty. Drifting. Getting through shows and work on autopilot, swallowing down bile as he plastered on a brave face, stumbling home to a quiet, messy flat and reheating leftovers in the microwave because he didn't want to stand there chopping vegetables and think about what else the instrument could do and he didn't have any clean dishes anyway. Staying up until the early hours of the morning, watching clips of their shows on the internet and thinking about what he'd leave behind if he finally hit that pause button. Only to drag himself out of bed when his alarm went off and repeat the process all over again. How much more could he take? It couldn't go on forever, not least because the others were coming to stay in a little over a week and everything would have to be fine by then. They'd only worry if his apartment looked like this and his eyes were bloodshot and tired from squinting at his screen in the dark. And he'd worried them far too much in the last two months.
Exhaling sharply, Luke got up off the floor, gripping onto the countertop to steady himself. He checked his phone, first, the screen illuminating the now near pitch-black room. He'd spent a good two hours just sitting there, lost in his thoughts. No new messages from their group chat, but there was a show tonight, something he only remembered because he always set a reminder to wish the others good luck. He'd talk to them when they got home, maybe, and fall asleep to their excited dissection of the evening rather than his own thoughts.
His gaze drifted then to the knife. Only freed from the drawer because he needed something to pierce the the plastic film covering the simple pasta ready meal he was supposed to be eating. Taunting him. Practically begging him to press its cool edges against his skin, somewhere hidden where no one would see it. Not his arms, because the weather was too warm to wear long sleeves and that would only invite questions. Not his legs, either, for very similar reasons. Somewhere no one would see.
Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the handle, the textured plastic that weird place between rough and smooth, and just held it, feeling the weight of it not only physically but the heaviness of all it represented, of memories of the hurt it brought his partners even when only one of them had ever used a blade to break skin. He wanted it. What would it feel like, the release? Using bodily pain to distract from everything going on in his head. Would it hurt more than if it had been an accident? Solana, one of the younger members of his school group, had been telling him about her homework the other day on the difference between nociception, or tissue damage, and pain; how the two aren't mutually exclusive and how the experience of pain is so heavily influenced by psychological factors rather than the extent of the injury. Could he make it hurt, then, even with something small? If he convinced himself that it was painful, then he could get away with it, not even enough to leave a scar, and then it wouldn't be so bad. No one would ever have to know. It might even heal before Sam, Tom and AJ came to Spain.
He wondered if Tom had tried the same thing. If it had started out small, invisible, and grown into something he couldn't hide.
Sweat coated his palms as Luke's feet dragged him to the bathroom and the hand that wasn't weighed down with a potential murder weapon flicked on the light switch. A shiver ran through him, skin prickling and a tremble in his fingers that he only noticed when he went to brush his hair out of his face. His heart made its presence known, as if he could forget he was still alive, hammering out a stubborn rhythm against his ribcage. He swallowed thickly, pushing down the saliva that flooded his mouth and the odd lump at the back of his throat. His eyes burned, but the tears refused to fall. As if he didn't deserve to cry when he was doing this to himself.
He pulled his trousers down over his hips. Traced the smooth skin over the bone and just below, right at the top of his thigh. Somewhere easily hidden by his boxers, just in case it didn't heal in time. Somewhere no one would notice the slight lump of a plaster.
Tom had been so brave, doing it somewhere visible. Luke knew he was too weak for that, too scared of making the others worry and having to answer their questions. He was a coward. But it didn't matter. If this was what it took to keep everyone safe from himself, this was what he'd do.
At first, he simply rested the blade against his skin. Testing the waters, waiting to see if he'd fall at the first hurdle. Something popped into his head, an old post from the depths of Tumblr that he'd seen back in his university days, an analogy about trains and how crossing the tracks was safer than walking up them. He didn't know why it had stuck with him all this time. As though his brain had filed that away under 'useful information for self-destruction,' and decided now was the right time to resurrect it.
His ears rung with that now-familiar high-pitched whine, and he held his breath as he applied pressure, gliding the edge of the knife across his upper thigh. Horizontally, at first, just to try it. It hurt a little, the thin line beading slightly with blood. He brushed his fingertip along the cut, smearing the red though no more came to take its place. Too gentle, perhaps? He didn't want to go too far though. Not yet.
Still, the rush of relief he was expecting didn't quite happen. In fact, barring the slight sting, he didn't feel much at all. The hollowness hadn't gone away, just sat heavy in his chest like it always had, no less or more than before he'd broken his promise to Sam and AJ. It should have felt monumental. He should feel guilty at betraying them, especially when they'd put so much trust in him by not telling Tom. It should have felt like disaster, like heartbreak, like the shattering of glass or the pounding of a fist against brick. He should have felt something. That was the whole point of this.
Maybe he simply hadn't done it hard enough.
It was easier, the second time. And the third. He went vertical this time, stretching the skin taught and dragging the knife faster over it, pressing deeper and deeper until the fourth line bled enough for it to run in a tiny rivulet down to his knee. There. There was the glass wall he'd been working towards. He could see beyond it, to harsher lines that wouldn't fade, but he knew this was where he had to stop. His withheld breath stuttered past his lips in something adjacent to a sob. Dizzy from standing hunched over, he sunk to his knees and continued to press the tip of the knife against one of the scratches he'd already made, trying to get it to bleed like the one that had finally made him feel something. If it bled, it would have to heal, and then he could prolong the pain without going deeper. Then he could make it burn with antiseptic and the brush of fabric. Fashion recovery into a weapon no one would expect him to use.
He looked down at his thigh, and the row of neatly spaced, if shaky, lines. An epitaph, his epidermis the grave in which he buried the version of himself that had made it this far. There was no going back now. He'd crossed over to the other side of something, that first line the only one different from the rest; fitting, really, that he'd always know which one cemented him as someone who should not be trusted or loved. Part of him hoped that one would scar. It wouldn't feel right, to have it disappear, as though he could hide behind seemingly unblemished skin and pretend he hadn't betrayed the ones he never wanted to hurt. That, if they ever did find out, they would be the ones scarred and he would have nothing to show for it at all.
The knife clattered onto the tile, and, at last, Luke let himself cry.
~~~
He didn't know how much time passed until he dragged himself off the bathroom floor. Long enough that his left leg had gone to sleep and his stomach grumbled in protest at the lack of sustenance. Logic trickled back into his consciousness, a list forming in his head of all the things he'd need to do. Clean the cuts, first of all, shallow as they were, and then food and some kind of hydration that wasn't coffee to combat the inevitable adrenaline crash. Maybe then he'd be able to start on tidying up his flat and create a semblance of normality. It'd be easier, then, to talk to the others if he wasn't stressed that the slightest misjudged camera angle would reveal everything.
He caught his reflection as he stood up, and it was odd, seeing himself the same. Sure, his face was blotchy from crying and the faint smile he tried to muster faltered far too quickly, but it still looked like the old Luke, the one now buried beneath his skin. It was as if the person in the mirror didn't quite match who he was in his head, anymore.
It didn't matter. That was a problem for another day. Breaking his gaze away, he rummaged through his medicine cabinet for antiseptic cream and plasters and got to work dressing the cuts, swearing under his breath at the renewed sting and relishing it all the same. His mind felt a little clearer, as though piercing that thin layer of skin had also cut through the fog of his thoughts. It almost felt like hope. Like maybe he could do this.
Back in the kitchen, his phone lit up with a message from Sam: I know we said we'd call after the show but AJ is asleep and I don't want to wake him. How was your day?
This time, the smile Luke felt ghost across his face was just a little more genuine, even if on some level what he replied with was a lie. Haha, better let him sleep then, as long as you had a good show. My day was good, I'm feeling a lot better today. Get some rest too, mi sol <3
He knew the brief reprieve wouldn't last. But he only had to hold on for a few more weeks, until after the others were back in London, and then perhaps he'd have the energy to finally take that break he'd been thinking about.