Luke Imagine: He’s
“I’m not putting that in my mouth.”
He scrunches his nose, turning his face away indignantly,
burying his head in the blankets to avoid your pleading eyes.
“Come on, Luke. It’ll
only last for two seconds.”
You poked him slightly with your spare hand, still holding
out the spoon in your other hand, trying to balance the gooey liquid in the
He peeks a single blue eye out of the covers and glares at
the violently pink spoon of medicine in your hand, eyes narrowing almost
He sounds like a little child with his stubborn refusal, the
loud sniff and raspy cough that follows ruining his act of defiance.
Luke groans slightly, finally appearing from the covers once
again, nose read and bleary-eyed from his coughs.
You sat on the edge of his bed patiently, pursing your lips
as you watched him. You silently handed him a wad of tissues and he begrudgingly
takes them, blowing his nose loudly before adding the rumpled tissues to the
ever-growing mountain next to his bed.
He flops back down onto the bed in utter defeat, closing his
eyes and sighing loudly.
“I hate being sick.”
His voice is nothing but a grumble, rasping with every word
and scratchy as they leave his throat.
You hated seeing Luke like this, no longer pouting playfully
or scrunching up his nose – he looked tired,
dark purple rings underneath his eyes and his pale skin tinted grey, his blonde
hair matter and body weak as his breath tried to heave another breath through
his congested throat.
The poor boy looked exhausted, so unlike the lively boy who
sang his lyrics with an enthusiasm and charisma to a crowd of thousands.
The boy before you looked like he could barely open his eyes
without it sapping out his energy; his movements slow and sluggish.
This wasn’t the musician that the world wanted to see, not the
performer that the girls yearned for – this was nothing but a worn-out boy who
had too many sleepless nights and too little healthy meals, a boy whose body
was telling him it was all too much.
The frequent shows that lasted for hours. The long car rides
and buses and trains and planes and changing timezones that he couldn’t keep up
with; the moving land that barely gave him time to catch his breath. The fans
that screamed too loudly for his ears and the smiles that he has to plaster
even on his worst nights.
He had thought he could handle it, but his body thought
Another violent coughing fit wracked his body, and it left
him feeling more drained and sore than before.
“Come on, Luke. Just one swallow, babe. I promise it’ll make
you feel better and it’ll help you sleep for a few more hours.”
You prodded him lightly, holding out the spoonful of medicine
to his lips.
His chapped lips bend into a small frown, but he opens his
mouth dejectedly after a few more moments of stubborn silence.
You quickly slip the contents of the spoon into his mouth,
hurriedly bringing a glass of water to his lips almost immediately afterwards.
He holds the glass weakly and you guide the water into his
mouth until he signals for you to stop,
“Tastes like satan’s bloody – “
A hacking cough cuts off his sentence mid-way, and you’re
half grateful for the well-timed interruption.
“Get some rest, Luke.”
You tuck the blankets back up to his chin and rearrange his
pillows again, your fingers trailing his hairline softly.
“We have a show in three days and I can barely even get up –
how can I rest knowing that I’m going to be letting all of our fans down? And
His words are a rasp, his tired blue eyes staring up at you.
You press your lips to his clammy forehead, brushing away
some flyaway hairs from his head. You tap hiss nose lightly and he squeezes his
eyes shut playfully, though when he opens them again, you can still see traces
of worry hidden beneath the depths of blue.
“You aren’t letting anyone down, Luke. The fans will
understand. The boys understand. Your body is telling you you need a break, and
trying to push past it and ignoring it will only make it worse.”
You try to reassure him, but he still looks doubtful,
eyebrows pinched together.
“Your health is the most important thing, Luke. Nobody’s
going to be upset at you – it’s going to take some time to recover, and if you
have to miss the show, then so be it.”
“But – “
“You can reschedule. You can apologize, if you really want
to. But it’s not your fault – it’s nobody’s fault. The boys need their rest, too.
But most of all, you need your rest.”
He blinks up at you with those tired blue eyes, and you
smile softly at him, kissing his forehead lightly once more to try to soothe
the worried wrinkles that appeared.
“Don’t worry, babe. Focus on making yourself better first,
He sighs softly before nestling into the blankets a little
Your question is hopeful, despite the fact that you knew
your pep talks wouldn’t win any awards.
“On the outside? Not particularly – still feeling pretty
crappy, except now I have this disgusting cherry aftertaste in my mouth from
You try to hide a smile from his sass, prominent even in his
“But on the inside, yeah. I… I guess what you’re saying
“Of course it does. You’re the one drugged up on medication.”
“And you’re the
one feeding me said medication. I’m beginning to think you have ulterior
motives with all of this.”
“Nope. Just being your personal nurse, looking out for your
health and all.”
He laughs, and it turns into a hacking coughing fit that
leaves the bed shaking slightly. He collapses back onto the pillows when he’s
done, chest heaving.
“Do you know what would make me feel better than some
revolting cherry medicine?”
“What do you prescribe, Doctor Hemmings?”
He smiles up faintly at you – it’s wobbly and fleeting, but
it still makes his eyes sparkle, even in his sickly figure.
“Stay with me.”
“You should be sleeping, Luke.”
“I know – I just… I just want a hand to hold.”
His voice is small, like a little child asking for their favourite
toy. You can’t help but to grin down at him before slipping into the covers,
squeezing yourself next to him on the small bed.
You find his cold hands underneath the covers and lace your
fingers with his; his hands loose against yours, though you can feel him
gripping your fingers weakly.
He leans his head onto your shoulder, tufts of blonde hair
sticking up in odd angles and brushing your cheek.
“You know, most guys usually tell their girlfriends to stay
away from them when they’re sick. So they don’t infect them and all – righteous
chivalry and all that.”
You hear Luke chuckle into your shoulder, and he buries his
head deeper into the crook of your neck, his breath warm on your collarbones.
“I’m trying to suck out your health to replenish mine.”
He swings his legs over yours with a lazy movement, trapping
you in between his too-cold skin and too-heated covers – that were no doubt full
of his germs from his coughs.
“What a gentleman.”
“I prefer ‘knight in shining armour’, princess.”
“Equipped with snotty tissues and wrapped in a germ-infested
“Shut up. I’m trying to rest.”
You can practically hear his pout and you laugh lightly
before turning back to Luke, his breaths beginning to steady as you watch his
chest heave in and out.
In a few minutes, you can hear soft snores emitting from his
mouth, his lips still pressed to your shoulder.
His skin is grey and his hair is dirty and there’s snot on
his nose and you’re certain he’s beginning to drool onto your shirt, but the
sight of Luke and his arms around yours – no matter how weak his grip is –
still makes your stomach flutter.
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