Pompeii ➳ muke

four

Back in Los Angeles, after an intense mob of overly excited fans and a long cab ride through seemingly endless traffic, Michael Clifford walks through the front door of his home.

The place is beautiful, old Gothic style architecture and vintage artwork adorning the walls. He had hired a few staff members awhile back to keep the place clean whilst he was away and by the look of it, they had been doing an exceptional job.

"Mister Clifford! Welcome home, how was your trip?" Annette, the house maid, greets as she enters the foyer.

Michael sets his bags down on the marble floor, "It was great, thank you for asking. Is Simon round?"

The woman nods in agreement, calling out for the Butler to come in. Moments later, a tall, dark haired man enters the room dressed in a posh suit.

"Ah, Mister Clifford, I did not hear you come in. Please, allow me to take your bags to your room," he says, picking up the luggage and carrying it up the spiral staircase.

Michael kicks off his shoes and unlocks his phone as he walks to the lounge to relax. He had been meaning to call his mother whilst he was away, but never got around to doing so. They weren't exactly close, per say, only seeing one another occasionally. Typically those occasions were only holidays and birthdays, but Michael had been oversea for Independence Day and hadn't been able to fly back for a celebration.

He presses the call button and flops down on the leather sofa, placing his feet on the coffee table and stretching his legs out. On the fourth ring, the call is answered and his mother's overly cheery voice greets him fondly.

"Michael, dear! It has been so long."

Michael smiles to himself, "Yeah, it really has. I'm sorry about that. I just got in from Chicago about an hour ago, feels weird to be back in Angeles."

His mother laughs dryly, and then they are speaking of when Michael will come to see his poor old mother again and Michael agrees that he will come soon. Although, he's really unsure of when soon actually is. They speak for almost an hour before Michael says he has to go, feeling extremely exhausted from the day's events.

In his bedroom, Michael strips off until his body is bare and crawls into his king sized bed. Engulfed in a fluffy, white duvet, Michael sleeps soundly for the first time in a long time.

× ×

Saturday evening comes around much too quick and Michael is forced to stop laying about his house and eating junk foods.

He dresses quickly, putting on a black and red checkered flannel and a pair of ripped, black jeans.

Arcadia has their final show of the tour, right here in their home town. The Rave is a popular music venue in downtown, housing many traveling bands and solo artists for shows. Tonight, Arcadia will be doing just that. Ten minutes after tickets had gone on sale, the show was sold out and the boys could not have been any more pleased.

By five o' clock, Michael is in the venue testing out sound equipment, being sure that everything is operating properly. He shouts and mumbles pointless words into the lime green microphone for a few minutes before his guitar is brought to him by a tech. He places the thick strap over his shoulder and takes a pick from the microphone stand, then plays through a few chords and notes.

"Everything sounds great, boys!" Wilde calls from side stage, "Put your instruments on the stands and then meet me in the green room, we've got a lot to discuss."

The four boys grumble as they follow the given instructions, placing their instruments on their assigned stands before walking to the green room. Once inside, they flop down onto the worn out sofas, kicking their feet up onto the table.

"Michael, this meeting is mainly about you," Wilde starts, earning a chuckle from Ajax, "Since you ever so kindly decided to deck a paparazzi back in Chicago, the little vermin are on high alert for you. They not only want photos, they want to piss you off. They want you to act out again."

Michael scoffs, rolling his eyes at the mere thought of these childish people.

"So, no meeting fans after the show Michael. You'll be staying inside of the venue until a car comes to pick you up. Whilst were on break, I need you to lay low. Try and keep out of the tabloids, seculde yourself if you absolutely must."

Michael nods in agreement, figuring it's probably best not to disagree. Disagreeing will only prolong the speech and quite frankly, Michael doesn't want to hear anymore of it.

Three hours later, after their opening act has finished their set, Arcadia is side stage going through their preshow ritual. Noah starts, throwing an arm over Tristian's shoulder and the other over Ajax's. The other two link up with Michael and they all bow their heads.

"We're going to have a great show tonight, boys!" Tristan cheers.

Noah smiles wide, "Give it your best! Most of all, have fun!"

Michael laughs, "Here's to memories!"

Ajax begins the countdown, starting with five and down to one. When the last number is counted out, they all unwrap their arms and let out a scream. It's an odd sight, surely, but to them it's ordinary. It hypes them, gets positive vibes out, clears their heads.

And it works tonight, just as it does every night. Arcadia puts on a phenomenal final show. The crowd erupts in a roar after each song. They sing along to the lyrics. Michael pours his heart and soul into that performance, he belts out the lyrics so passionately. And he just knows that this is what he is meant to do, he was designed for it, it's all he ever wants to do. He loves his job. He is in it for the music, he wants to change lives.

When the show is over and the crowd has either gone home or outside in hopes of stumbling upon a band member, Michael is told there is a car waiting for him behind the venue. The paparazzi are in large groups near the front exit and Wilde doesn't want to risk another incident.

Michael exits the building and out into the dimly lit street, but there is no car waiting there for him. He thinks it must be down the block, to keep out of anyone's sight, and so he begins to walk.

Much to his dismay, as he crosses the deserted street, a voice calls out two simple words, "It's him!" and then there are at least a dozen figures rushing towards him with cameras in hand. Michael knows he can't be photographed, he'll never hear the end of it if he does. And so, he does the only logical thing.

He runs.

His boot clad feet slap against the pavement loudly, his breathing is erratic from smoking too many cigerettes and having done little excersise in his entire twenty-one years of exsistence.

Just as he rounds the corner of Thames Street, he turns for just a moment to look behind him. Hoping that the paps have lost sight of him. They are no where to be seen, there are no flashes of light from cameras. And as he turns back, ready to slow down to a walk, his body collides with another. A high pitched squeal rings out as the person falls to the hard pavement. Artificial flower petals float down to the ground, next to long legs clad in black skinny jeans.

Michael stops instantly, stumbling backward before regaining his balance.

"I am so sorry! Are you -" Michael starts, stopping when he catches sight of the boy on the ground.

The boy looks up, baby blue eyes meeting Michael's emerald ones, his blond hair is quiffed, holding up a pretty flower crown.

And Michael thinks he's beautiful. The most lovely creature he's ever laid eyes on.