Starr Luxee

AO3 is the same name xx

[starr-luxee]

Between A Rock & A Hard Place (your best friend and your resident)

HEY DIVAS

I'm posting the first chapter of my fanfic here :) rest is available to read on AO3 and wattpad xxx

--Chapter 1: Osteomyelitis--

It had started as a small sore, right at the bottom of his stump, probably where it rubbed against his prosthesis that he had meant to get refitted months ago. The long shifts, the dehydration, and the poor sleep hadn’t helped as the sore grew larger and angrier over the weeks. Jack had ignored it, taking small breaks in the bathroom to remove his leg and get a few seconds of relief, patting the weeping sore dry before getting back to work. In the ER, the last thing anyone wanted was a sick doctor, and Jack was too proud to admit the pain was starting to get to him. It niggled at the back of his mind, the dull ache that grew sharper and sharper until it became unbearable. He felt the ache in his bone; he could sense the spreading warmth that grew up until it reached his knee, and then up his thigh.

Robby found him sitting on the rooftop, on the correct side of the barrier. His prosthesis was cast aside, the stump dripping pus freely onto the concrete. Jack was bandaging it, wrapping it in gauze as he choked back some pills from the stash of antibiotics he had swiped days ago- they weren’t working.

“The fuck are you doing?” Robby asked, squatting beside him,

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Jack ignored the question.

Robby picked up the prosthesis, the sock was balled up inside, stained a deep crimson with dried yellow pus blooming around the edges. He stands and holds it up to the morning Pittsburgh sun. “I don’t need to tell you that you’ve got an infection, do I? How long has it been like this?”

“It was a tiny pressure sore; it just kept getting worse.” Jack finished the bandaging and gestured for Robby to hand back the prosthesis. Robby didn’t.

“Yeah, that happens when you keep putting pressure on it. Have you seen anyone?”

“I’m not taking advice from you of all people,” Jack bites back as he pulls himself up, balancing precariously on one leg and tries to swipe the prosthesis from Robby’s hand. The taller man only pulled further away

“You should.” Robby handed him the sock, but kept hold of the leg, “Are you in pain?”


“Osteomyelitis tends to hurt.” Jack leaned the barrier and pulled on the sock, cringing at the feeling despite the layers of gauze

“It’s spread to the bone, and you’re still at work?” Robby knelt to help him put it back on, noting the sharp hiss from the other man,

“I’ve been taking antibiotics,” He protests, adjusting to the pain and pressure, taking a couple of short steps

“I’m booking you into the OR, doctor’s orders.”

And that’s how it ended, with Jack being taken into surgery a day later. Robby peered through the glass of the observation deck to make sure they didn’t kill his friend. His fingers found the star of David hanging around his neck and played with it, carefully feeling each point press into his skin. Once they had closed up, he entered the chaos of the emergency room. Dana cornered him at his desk,

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, it looked like it went well; they’re going to call me when he wakes up.”

Dana pulled off her glasses and gave him a sympathetic look, “He’ll be back to work sooner than he should; make sure he looks after himself.”

Robby nods, eyes drifting to the board of patients he had neglected all morning,

“And look after yourself too, you look like you’re gonna cry.” Robby blinked; his eyes felt wet. He shook his head, crossed his arms and lifted his chin,

“I’m not the one with bacteria eating away at my bones.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Dana put her glasses back on and patted Robby’s shoulder before walking away.

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose and headed in the opposite direction. If people were going to pity him and not the man in surgery, maybe he should have stayed home.

Whittaker was the next to find him, appearing at his side in a different colour of scrubs to the ones Robby had seen him in as he walked through hours before. Whittaker must have seen the confusion flash across his face,

“A patient ripped his catheter out and decided to use it for chemical warfare.” He gave a sheepish smile, a pink blush spreading across his cheekbones, tinging the tips of his ears. Robby noted the soft curls that had blossomed as Whittaker grew his hair out, like lamb’s wool all over his head.

“Oh- are you okay?” “Yeah, fine, but, uh, sorry if you can still smell it.”

“No, no, you smell good.” Robby instinctively grabbed the smaller man’s shoulder as he said it. Dennis looks at the hand, then back up at his attending. Robby has only just processed what he’s said, and his mind scrambles.

“Thanks, Doctor Robby,” He said, still smiling, “I just had a question about a patient?” Whittaker graces him with a diversion.

“Of course,” Robby is led outside a patient’s room as Whittaker explains his predicament.

He’s only half-listening; the other half of his mind is screaming at him. He blinks harshly to block out the distractions and forces out a response to Whittaker’s question before finding an excuse to walk away so he can slam his head into the nearest wall. He’s always had a soft spot for the new doctor, seeing his confidence grow over his months in the Pitt had only cemented it. His heart stirred at the thought that he had some small part in that. He curses himself under his breath and finds Langdon, a welcome source of dry sarcasm that can distract him. Langdon is arguing with a patient- all is normal again.

—

The call comes an hour later, and Jack is fully awake and alert. Robby steps outside and lights a cigarette in the ambulance bay. The smoke whorls in the air and drifts away in the light breeze. In the distance, sirens and bird calls echo against the hospital’s brick walls. The sun is a bright white against the sky, and clouds pull in from the distance. Robby places the cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag, feeling a familiar burn deep in his lungs. He taps the ash away and listens to the nurse over the phone. Jack is fine, the surgery went completely textbook, he’ll be on IV antibiotics for the rest of the day, and then switched to oral. He’ll be seeing the physio and OT later, too, who will assess to see when he can return to work. The nurse tells Robby what ward he’ll be transferred to, and Robby thanks her. He’ll visit after his shift has ended, he knows the staff on the ward, and they’ll let him visit after hours. Robby ends the call and pockets his phone. There’s a breeze in the air, early spring fighting against the last of winter. He relishes the warmth of the smoke, the slight buzz of nicotine settling in his veins. He doesn’t smoke often, not enough to adjust to the feeling. It’s just another bad habit he’s picked up from years in the ER. He knows he uses this excuse way too much. He drops the butt onto the floor and stamps it out before slipping a piece of gum into his mouth. Dana, ever the hypocrite, loves to berate him for smoking.

He walks back into the ER and pumps hand sanitiser into his hands, rubbing them together. The skin is dry and cracking from years of washing and sanitising, but Robby does it compulsively. It’s a way of settling his nerves, of grounding himself. It feels normal, it feels like a reset to his nerves. The nicotine is making his head feel light, and he takes a lap until it passes. Dana is watching him from her desk, peering over her computer screen. A gurney rushes past with Santos and Langdon in tow. The noise settles to the back of his mind- the beeping of monitors, the rushing of feet- it’s all so easy to ignore now. He’s only really focused on Jack, counting down the hours until he can see him, assess him for himself. It’s toxic, but Robby has learned to trust no one’s eyes but his own, and he won’t settle until he can see Jack before him.

Jack is sitting up when Robby arrives, leafing through a trashy magazine. He stands at the door for a moment, just observing his friend. He’s in a single room, a nurse is currently adjusting his IV. The lights have been turned down on the unit; it’s peaceful. Jack thanks the nurse, and as he looks up he spots Robby standing there. He lets the nurse past and steps into the room, sitting in the chair beside the bed. Jack is covered in the thin hospital blanket, but his stump is exposed, wrapped in fresh bandages. Robby nods to it,

“Any pain?”

“I’m on painkillers,” Jack says, “I hope you’re not here as a consult.” Jack laughs, and Robby forces a smile.

Jack sets down the magazine and turns to face Robby properly, “I mean it, I’m fine, Mikey.”

“Don’t call me that; no one calls me that.”

“I always used to, everyone did.”

“Are you getting sentimental?” Robby is fiddling with his necklace.

No one calls him Mikey, it’s an old nickname from med school, but the word feels sour now. Jack only calls him that when he’s either winding him up or being overly emotional.

“Hah, no.” Jack grins, “I just know it annoys you.”

Robby stands and checks Jack’s cannula, then he moves around to the other side of the bed to check his IV

“Didn’t you see the nurse check it a minute ago?”

“I’m checking it for myself,”

“I told you I’m fine,”

“I’m just making sure.” Robby moves to look at his stump,

“Don’t touch it!” Jack moves away, “Just leave it!”

“I’m making sure it looks okay,” Robby goes to remove the bandages, peeling them away, “I need to check-“

“Mikey!” Robby stops. His hands drop, and he hangs his head. Jack reaches forward and grabs his wrist,

“Please, I’m okay, you need to relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just- I need to make sure.”

Jack smiles, dropping his grip on Robby “You’ve done enough, you made me get the surgery, now let the staff look after me.”

Robby sits again, “I’m sorry,” He repeats.

“It’s okay. You never change, huh?”

“I worry about you.”

Jack holds his wrist again, gentler this time. Robby feels his thumb stroking the dark hair, calloused fingers rubbing against his skin. He sighs, the breath feels shaky, uncertain.

“I know you do, but I’m fine.” He laughs, “We’ve both survived worse than this.”

Robby feels himself relax, the tight muscles in his shoulders finally letting go. Jack lets go again, his hand resting next to Robby's, fingers barely touching. Jack gingerly shifts himself over in the bed until he’s near the edge. “I think you’re the one getting sentimental,” Jack says, his voice softer now. Robby just shrugs; he doesn’t move the hand resting next to Jack’s. He just sits with Jack and gives him a run-down of his shift. Jack listens. He lies back in his bed, eyes fluttering shut. The hand next to Robby’s never moves, even as he drifts off to sleep.



Robby doesn’t leave until Jack begins to snore. He shuts the door softly, thanks the staff and heads out of the hospital into the cold air of the Pittsburgh evening. It’s turning dark, and car headlights flash past as he walks home. He slips his earphones in and turns on a song. It’s one he and Jack used to listen to, one Jack would always perform for karaoke at the end of the night. It’s safe, familiar, and nostalgic.

The next morning, he’s hounded by Dana, who has plenty of questions about Jack. He answers them, simultaneously doing his rounds. He's just sitting at his desk when his phone rings, and he sees Jack’s contact details flash onto the screen. His heart drops, and he hurries outside to answer. The air is biting cold this morning, but he barely registers it. His hands shake as he fumbles to answer the call. His voice comes out urgent,

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack replies, “I just had a question.” 


Robby leans against the wall of the ambulance bay, “Anything.”

“Can I stay with you?”

[wlfhrdlvr]

ppl commenting on fanfics is lowkey a lost art and not even in the way that i want engagement just like guys i need to know what you think don’t be shy tell me tell me

[starr-luxee]

Just finished a 7 week placement at the hospital and there was no gay polyamorous longing so what even was the point? Also if you're waiting for me to update my fic I'm sorry but I did not want to come home from a hospital to write about a hospital

[starr-luxee]

RIP to all my half-finished fanfics. If you were ever a fan of them, I’m sorry I left you hanging like that

[starr-luxee]

Birthday.

(I feel like this lowkey sucks but I enjoyed writing it)

—

A disappointment the moment I was born,

arms stretched into blinding lights,

the doctor saw I lacked between my legs,

the world crumbled around my bloodied form.

They didn’t have a name prepared,

all the clothes were blue,

they spent weeks deciding what to do with me,

this mistake they had to bear.

I was left for hours on the floor,

hoovered around- discarded,

all I had were baths and food,

milk, not love, was poured.

And when my brother was born,

the happy bundle of joy,

my mother grew elated,

no longer dreary and warn

This boy was her true child,

the one for which she had yearned,

and he was coddled, and snuggled,

the first time she had smiled.

I had become a servant,

a ghost in my own home,

my brother grew to rule the roost,

my mistake grew more prevalent.

What had I done wrong?

What fault could I claim?

Was I the problem all this time?

Or do they just hate their young?

[starr-luxee]

I started a new fic on AO3 called “Between A Rock & A Hard Place (your best friend and your resident)” you should go read it please please please please

[infpisme]

[infpisme]

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

Iain Thomas

[starr-luxee]

peace.

There is little peace in my life.

There is only sadness, only grief, only worries and doubts,

the thought I might not be enough and one day 

everyone will leave me.

For me, peace is nothingness,

the creeping chill of morning,

the warmth of bitter coffee.

Peace is silence and hushed leaves rustling

in the trees where they dance,

awaiting their eventual demise.

Am I at peace? As I sit beneath

the tree, listening for the birds,

wishing on dandelion seeds,

scowling at the dirt staining my knees.

For there is silence, but it is too loud,

too defeaning,

too temporary.

I want to be at peace forever-

forever quiet.

I never want to trouble the world with my noise,

the broken sobs that cling to the air,

the atmosphere that shatters with each exhale

of my breathe that seems infinite.

I want peace forevermore. 

[starr-luxee]

Temptation

This is something I wrote for my english class, but I liked it so I thought I would put it here :) (does include mentions of death and blood, but nothing too gory) 

He was gone too soon.

That’s what they always say, but really any time would be too soon. Any time that I have to spend, the years I will endure without his presence- they will always be too much, too many. He could have died in a thousand years, but if I still had to continue on my own, then he would still be gone too soon.

It’s funny, they say ‘gone too soon’ like I’m unaware of the fact. That I believe it was the right time, that it’s perfectly acceptable for him to be gone and for me to be alone. It’s not. It will never be alright, I will never be alright. Not without him, for the only time I feel at ease is when I’m in his arms.

Now, I live with the constant fear. The realisation that he’s really gone has begun to worm its way to my heart, infesting my body with the idea that he will never again walk through that door and hold me. It stings, every time I feel it, like thorns digging into me from inside, piercing my lungs and making it hard to breathe. I wish my breathing would just stop, so I could at last be reunited, but it always seems to come back, and I’m hit with another wave of knowledge; the knowledge that I’m not with him. It reappears in different forms, but it always hurts the same.

But my end is not yet to come, and I carry on living the best that I can, trying not to collapse at the very mention of his name or any image of his face. It’s exhausting, and the world seems to be against me. It poisons me, haunts me, but not in the way you would expect. I don’t see him in shop windows, mistake his voice in my ear, no, instead I feel him.

Well, it’s not him. It could never be him, and I’m not foolish enough to think that. Loss is a difficult thing, but I know the feeling. We’ve all lost something, but when something small is absent it’s rather hard to be aware of what I’m feeling now. But this loss, it’s something big. The feeling is amplified, and the wounds it causes are greater and deeper to accommodate this. This feeling, it’s of absence. Not just the absence of him, but the absence of space entirely. It’s the lack of him, in places he once was, and now he’s gone God doesn’t know what to put there.

It’s like something wiped away space altogether. I feel it when I stand where he usually stood, leaning against the kitchen counter with such carelessness. He would put his hands on the counter top behind him, standing there. Now, as I pass through the space a chill invades me, running up my spine and ghosting over my arms, raising goosebumps in its wake. I have to stop, to see if the feeling will pass, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing there, and I know that- but that’s the problem really. Nothing’s there, but he should be.

I think the world is confused, because it knows right now a body should stand in this very spot, but its lack of existence is disturbing the very fabric of being. He’s destined to stand here, but his death has broken destiny, now the strands of reality are pulled thin in this space, allowing a draft through. I move out of it, because the cold is starting to hurt my head, right in the centre. I hiss in the chill and break free from it, trying to pretend I hadn’t experienced it altogether.

It’s weird, having cold where there should be warmth. He was always warm, and he always warmed me. But now, there’s ice. I shake my head to clear the thoughts, and carry on with my living, knowing better than to dwell on the thought of him. Of course, a part of me is always thinking about him, but if I draw attention to it I find the feeling is much worse. I let myself forget about the chill, but I do put on a jacket, to hide the bumps still decorating my skin.

Forgetting. It’s a blessing and a curse. Forgetting helps me to move past the incident, but it also makes the shock of it happening again much more pungent and sharp. I sat at his spot at the dining table, the closest one to the door, and it hit me like an avalanche. The chill, the frost, the frozen pain. It stabbed me, clung to me, grew on me like mould, it’s feverish grip as it held me fast in the chair. I tensed all over, begging for the feeling to leave me, but it wouldn’t. It reached my heart, stilling it into some tight longing sensation. My hands gripped the seat of the chair until my knuckles turned white, and my eyes screwed shut, blocking out the world. This was cruel, this torture. Why did it have to be cold? His inviting warmth, it could soothe me, but this chill was intended to do the opposite. I was in distress, trying to writhe away from the air, but it didn’t let me go. I couldn’t get out of the chair, something was holding me to it, chaining me to this heartbreak. You can’t forget forever, at some point you have to remember. And remember it I would, there was no forgetting the feeling. The feeling of his absence, God’s cruelty as he was ripped from me, like a part of me was removed and never coming back.

Eventually, the feeling subsided enough for me to move. I opened my eyes and pushed the chair back and away as hard as I could, scrambling up onto my feet incase it caught me again. I left the chair out from the table, sitting there like a warning. I wanted my jacket again, I was so cold. I walked to the pile of washing I was yet to do and sought for it. Somewhere in here, my armour. I rummaged through the pile, and found not my own jacket-

-but his.

It was green, a dark forest green, and long. He was tall, and I remember this jacket well, the way it covered him, the shape it took when he wore it. When I held it, it felt like holding him, soft and comforting. It had been buried under a mountain of fabric, and its warmth was not too dissimilar to his own, but still not the same. However, its scent was his- his and only his. It was sterile, like desert sand; fresh, like the green tops of strawberries; and yet, sweet, like a syrup that sticks to the roof of your mouth and stays there. I hadn’t smelt this since he had last held me, but now it was here, for me to feast on.

I ran my hands along the fabric, smoothing it out, surveying what was once his. Here, in the middle, was something I had hoped not to see. His blood, dark and flaking at the touch. It stained the green of the jacket, but I didn’t mind. Something else of his, I thought, barely pressing my fingertips to the substance, tracing the outline of the stain, picturing where it would have been on his body.

I hadn’t been there when he died, but now, I had my chance to say what I would have said had I been there. I knelt on the floor, jacket draped along my knees, and I whispered to the jacket all of things I needed to tell him. I would have whispered them in real time, too, because no one else deserved to hear these words. I didn’t feel these things for anyone else, so nobody else should get to hear them. They were for him, and I wondered if he could hear them now. From above, the sea of golden clouds where he now lived, could he hear me? See me as my vision grew blurry with long harboured tears. Did he notice, how my voice grew hoarse as my throat grew tight. My heart dropped with each confession, each declaration. Why had I waited? I would have liked to see his reaction, but now I couldn’t. The jacket couldn’t talk, it couldn’t show how it felt. I imagined his face- his wide, but subdued smile; his eyes, how they always seemed to shine no matter how dark the world was; his hand, gracing my cheek with the simplest brush.

My hands trembled as I picked up the jacket, I pressed it to my face, burying myself in it. I had done so when he wore it too, pressing into it until nothing else remained. Time would stop in his embrace, all else would be removed and it would just be us. We didn’t need anyone else, I didn’t need anyone else. If I had him, the feeling of him, the scent of him, then I would be happy. This wasn’t the same, but then again nothing would ever be the same.

I made do, with the jacket. I kept it with me at all times, holding it close. I slept with it, tangled in my arms, face pressed deeply into its folds. I couldn’t bear to be apart from it, the sensation of it not being in my hands was devastating. This was him, and it was mine. He was mine, and I couldn’t lose him again. The idea of washing it, it was unbearable, so the jacket grew dirty and the blood on it turned black with time. I still held it, not bothering to avoid the stain. In fact, I often focused on the patch, because it was even more him than the jacket. I touched the blood, felt the dry roughness of it against my fingers and smiled. If I rubbed hard enough, some of the black liquid would transfer to my skin. It was beautiful, coating me and staining me. I never washed it away, not once, because I would be removing a part of him from myself. I let my fingertips grow as black as the stain, and then- and only then- did I push my fingers past my lips and let the taste of him spread across my tongue.

It was oddly soothing, letting my mouth absorb his life, the once red essence of him. I found such enjoyment in it, and it became somewhat of an addiction. Every day, I would absently dye my fingers with the blood, and by night fall I could indulge in my secret pleasure under the security of the darkness. It was heavenly, and I imagined this is what true bliss felt like, licking his blood from my hands, making sure to waste none of it. It would be a sin, to let this sweet, indulgent nectar be wasted. I swallowed every bit of it, desperate for more, but swallowing my desires until the next day. I had to restrain myself, but nobody can pretend forever. It grew too much, the thought of having him inside me. Where he couldn’t leave, where my body would absorb and never release him. If he was in me, then we would be one, and for as long as I existed, he would exist within me.

My love, he would become mine. Truly, mine.

I waited for a beautiful moonlit night. The clouds had resigned themselves away, and the moon was as bright as any star. It shone down on me, as I prepared the jacket for my final act of love. The knife was sharp as I worked it through the green, well-loved fabric. I cut the seams, freeing the arms and panels of one another. They would be back together soon enough, I promised them, as I continued slicing and cutting. It felt nice, to cut into him like this. To feel the resistance of the fabric, his resistance as he wordlessly begged for me to stop.

“My love,” I whispered, “It’s ok, my darling, this will be short.”

I sat down at the table, the scraps before me. My mouth watered at the very thought of what was going to happen. I had stopped myself for so long, but this was my reward. As I placed the first piece on my tongue, it was glorious, the sensation of swallowing it, forcing my body to accept the gift of him. He tried to lodge himself in my throat, but my resolve was unbreakable. He would be a part of me, I was determined to do this. It was for his benefit, too, for if not this fabric would disintegrate into nothing, and time would leave its unstoppable mark. Now, he would be immortal.

I kept eating, devouring hungrily every last segment of the jacket. The parts stained with blood were the best, flavoursome and oddly delicate as I swallowed them down. This was it, he was mine now, and he couldn’t escape me again. If I went anywhere, he would come too, and if I ever needed him, he would be there. My darling, my sweet lover, how I had waited for this feeling again. This feeling of being complete, being whole- being full.

[vortexsophia-deactivated2022110]

[starr-luxee]

i have days where i waver. when the sun no longer breaks through the blinds, when the music is never the right volume, when my writing isn’t perfect. small things that break my life away from how i wish it was. and that’s ok. you’re allowed bad days, to feel bad things, to let the small inconveniences sting. you’re allowed to feel, never punish yourself and never let others punish you for it. feeling is what makes you human, and that includes bad feelings, no matter how small they seem.

[starr-luxee]

i believe in romanticising your life. everything. from the smallest gestures to the words you say; you are the main character and you should own that. when you pluck a flower, examine it, smell it, endulge yourself in what you do. all eyes are on you, put on a show darling

[starr-luxee]

i love you. you, as a whole thing. not your face or your body, not your smile, not even your mind. you. because you are not a human to me, you are not a person. you are something so divine, a force to which i am drawn to and worship indefinitely. i love you, and i could not bear to separate you into singular things, because you as a whole are what i adore.

[starr-luxee]

oh to be a rich edwardian studying at cambridge only to abandon class for a secret lover

[starr-luxee]

i recently discovered that you can say you’re gay by using the phrase “i’m of the oscar wilde sort” and i think that’s beautiful <3

[starr-luxee]

You are all of the things you love. You are the cluttered bookshelf that is piled high with worn, tired books. You are that delicate tea-cup that you have to clean by hand when everything else goes in the dishwasher. You are the moon and the sun. You are the flowers speckled with rain. You are the Earth and the people that live on it, with hearts of gold and diamonds in their eyes. You are the things that make you happy, that make you smile, those moments where time stops and you are left alone in space. You are all of the things you love, and if that's so, it means you love yourself, because you are yourself.