Chapter Text
Ever since he could remember, Luke knew that hands were the tools that dispensed love. When thunderstorms and monsters in the closet kept him up at night as a kid, it was always the feeling of callused hands carding through his hair that made him feel safe. Luke was untouchable, held tightly in his dad’s arms, where he would be protected forever.
It was obvious in the careful way that his mom would cradle his face with her hands and kiss his forehead whenever she told him she loved him, in the way she would hold out her hands like guards to keep him from toppling off the kitchen counter when they baked together. It was obvious in the way that his dad would toss him into the air when he came home from work, catching him securely each time. Love flowed through Luke, steady and true like a frequency that would never wane.
As he grew up, though, things began to shift. Hands dispensed love through the birthday present of an acoustic guitar, through strumming and plucking and everything in between. Those six strings made magic whenever Luke put his hands to them- it was an extension of him, of his soul, of his heart that he could now share with the world. His music was a newfound form of love... If only his mom and dad could see that. Their support was unconditional at first, then begrudging, then going, going, gone.
The band was overly affectionate and easy in a way that screamed comfortable, longtime friendship. In reality, they’d latched onto each other not long after they met, once it became clear that they were all lacking a support system, amidst other things. Sure, the four of them only really became friends in the latter half of 8th grade, but they interacted with each other as if they'd been friends, no, family, their whole lives. Sunset Curve would be immortalized, Luke knew, because they stuck together like glue. No matter what his parents said, they would be legends.
Other bands didn't have what they had- love flowed freely between them in the form of absent-minded shoulder touches, bumping elbows, long hugs, holding hands. He soaked up physical contact like a plant did sunshine, no matter the strange looks he’d get whenever his fingers were intertwined with Reggie’s as they walked down the hallway, no matter the muttered comments from Alex’s parents about ‘bad influences’ as he slung an arm over the drummer’s shoulder, no matter the half-hearted grumbling from Bobby as Luke tackled him into a hug. That was his thing, and everyone knew it.
But now that he was dead, everything was different. Hurtling into the afterlife 25 years after that fateful street dog meant he was constantly trying to keep up- new slang, new tech, new music, new everything. It made him long for familiarity, for times that weren’t really good but he was used to, worn-in and known like old jeans. Sure, he had the guys, but as the saying goes, distance made the heart grow fonder. There was a gap that Luke couldn’t bridge as hard as he tried- and he tried.
For weeks after their return, Luke returned to the house- not his house, not after he'd packed his bags and left- without fail, trying anything to get his parents' attention. He cried every time, begging and screaming for them to see him, hear him, comfort him in a way he hadn't felt for months… in a way they hadn't felt for over 25 years. They looked so tired now, like all that time apart weighed down on them without respite. (Sometimes, he wondered if this was all worth it- and it scared him that the answer wasn't always a resolute yes.)
He still loved them, don't get him wrong, but these people were shells of the mom and dad that Luke knew- faded out, washed away by the grief that hung heavy over their household.
Maybe, just maybe, if he repeated enough of the things he’d done to rile his mother up when he still lived there, maybe that would do it.
Luke would take the lecture, the yelling- welcome it even. Anything would be better than to remain invisible to them for eternity, unseen and unheard.