Pompeii ➳ muke

three

On Friday morning, before the sun has even rose, Michael is out of bed and packing his last few belongings into his suitcase. In just two hours, the band will be flying back to Los Angeles, their home town.

Of course, Michael is more than ready to go home. He longs to sleep in his own bed, maybe visit his mother and sister for a day. They do not have much time off so Michael aims to make the best of it.

In the lobby, Ajax is already waiting. His suitcase is stood next to him and he's rubbing his hazel eyes with the back of his hand.

"Hey, Jax. You alright?" Michael questions as he approaches.

Ajax has an irrational fear of airplanes and flying in general, stating that it's justnotsafe, okay?

The brunette nods, "Yeah, Wilde gave me something for anxiety. It's supposed to calm me down, but I don't think it's working."

"Just give it time, do that breathing thing Skylar taught you."

Skylar is their stylist who travels on tour with them. She keeps their stage clothes clean and chooses outfits for interviews, so they always appear well managed. Ajax had gone into a panic attack at the airport a few weeks ago and luckily Skylar knew exactly how to help. She taught him some sort of breathing excersise that was meant to relax his nerves. It worked and Ajax has been doing it since.

The elevator dings and Noah and Tristan exit, their own bags in hand, and Tris instantly asks Michael if he needs a cigerette. The blond nods happily, following the guitarist through the revolving doors and into the cool, morning air. The pair are quiet as they smoke, Tristan too busy creating rings of smoke to carry on conversation. Michael doesn't mind, it's relaxing. The cool Chicago air and the smoke filling his lungs.

Once he's finished, the cigerette burned down almost to the butt, he stomps it out on the pavement and enters the hotel once again. Rossi, Wilde, and Noah are all there, listening intently to the instructions Wilde is giving.

"Once we get to the airport, we are going in and heading straight for security. I don't know if there will be fans waiting this early, but we do not have time to stop. Noah, this means you, no stopping."

The drive to the airport is painstakingly quiet, a pin drop could be heard. It's a bit awkward, really. As if no one really knows what to say. Chicago had surely been interesting. Michael had caused legal trouble outside of a bar and then caused quite a scene in the café. And maybe he should be concerned, but he just isn't. Punching a pap might be a big deal, but Michael has a really good lawyer, he pays lots of money to keep him around.

At the airport, there is a small group of fans waiting. And instantly, Noah drifts off in their direction, just to be pulled back by Rossi and steered straight ahead. The boy's face falls in disbelief, turning his head to look back at the girls. They look disappointed, surely, and Noah's heart breaks a little. He's fan oriented, always looking out for them and doing everything that he can to make them happy. He's said a million times that Arcadia would be nothing without the fans. It's true, the fans are the only reason the band has a career.

They make it through security without any complications and sit in the plastic chairs by their terminal. It's a long wait and the boys become bored rather quick.

"I can't sit here any longer," Tristan whines.

Noah sighs, "Neither can I. I'm hungry, someone feed me."

Wilde and Rossi exchange a knowing look, "Alright, go to the café and pick something up. Bring it back here and don't take too long, we have a flight to catch!"

Noah springs up from his seat, running off in the direction of the café.

"Nojo, you asshole! Wait for me!" Tristan yells, running after the bassist.

Michael laughs, finding the whole ordeal childish yet hilarious at the same time. Luckily, he isn't hungry and doesn't have to follow after them. He has never been one to eat so early in the morning, his appetite kicking in during the late afternoon.

He decides to scroll through his Twitter feed to pass the time. He reads tweets from both friends and fans alike, occasionally favoriting something he finds funny. That's one of his favorite aspects, all he has to do is favorite a fan's tweet and they are instantly happy. But then he sees a tweet that he doesn't quite like, seemingly from one of the girls waiting on the main level.

Arcadia didn't even stop to meet fans at the airport.

We waited all night for literally nothing.

Michael isn't really sure what to do. He hates letting fans down, never wants to see them upset. So he quickly clicks reply and types,

Are you still in the airport? Wait. I'm coming!

He stands up, pocketing his phone and clearing his throat, "I, um, I have to piss. I'll be back."

And then he's walking quickly out of sight and back in the direction of where the fans were. When he spots them, they are obviously expecting him, having seen his reply. Cautiously, he approaches them and greets them kindly.

"I can't believe you responded to my tweet and came back!" One of the girls squeals.

Michael smiles, "We are in a bit of a rush this morning. We have a flight to catch very soon."

And then the girls are asking for photographs and autographs and Michael obliges to every request.

"Where are the others?" Someone questions.

"Ajax is waiting in our terminal, he's got anxiety when it comes to flying. Tristan and Noah are off somewhere, probably causing trouble."

They laugh in response and Michael spends a few more minutes aimlessly chatting with them. But then he realizes he's been gone far too long and Wilde will be on his ass about his whereabouts. He thanks the fans for being patient and waiting before dismissing himself.

Back at the terminal, Noah and Tristan have returned and are eating loudly. Wilde has his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Michael is annoyance.

"Long piss, yeah?" The manager says sarcastically.

"Yeah, really had to go."

Just then, their flight home is announced and they collect their carry on. On the plane, Michael relaxes in his seat and slowly drifts to sleep. All of his worries left hundreds of miles below.