(You're My) Security Blanket| 5sos

Chapter One

The first time it happens, Michael shrugs it off as a result of the unfortunate combination of getting mobbed earlier in the day- something that still scares him to his very core even after all this time- and a minor case of tour-induced sleep deprivation.

He lies in his bunk for a few minutes, breath struggling to even out as the remaining traces of the nightmare lingers in the corners of his mind. Michael fails to remember what even really happened in the dream, and yet the startling image of a bloodied Luke Hemmings keeps coming into his stream of consciousness. He tries not to dwell on the image, and simply hops down from his bunk, tiptoeing towards the claustrophobic bathroom, wary of his slumbering bandmates.

The light that floods the room upon him sliding the door open is aggressively bright, and he blinks rapidly for a few moments, trying to will the stars out of his vision. Once his eyes adjust, he inspects the disheveled face staring back at him through the mirror. The purple bags under his eyes are a stark contrast to his nearly corpse-like pale skin. It's clear that whatever dream that had plagued his sleep was quite the nightmare- literally. There's tear tracks beginning to dry on his cheeks, though he'd deny their existence if anyone was there to see.

He turns on the faucet and waits for the water to chill before splashing his face a few times. The uneasy feeling that sits at the bottom of his stomach is still very present, so Michael quickly gives up on the notion of falling back asleep. He towels his face dry and runs a shaking hand through his red, frenzied hair. Clearing his throat with a loud cough, he slides open the door, mentally cursing as he scrambles to shut off the light that floods the bunk area as a result. He resumes his feather-light steps down the aisle until he reaches the media center area at the rear of the bus. Michael shuts himself in and collapses on the couch, absentmindedly groping for the remote. Once he successfully locates it, he spends what feels like an eternity flipping through the channels before settling on How It's Made- he finds the narrator's voice to be quite soothing after a particularly bad anxiety attack.

He spends the remaining hours of the night like that- laying on his back, chilled from the cold sweat still present on his slightly dampened t-shirt, the slight tremble of his entire being persistently continuing, half-listening to the mildly enthusiastic narrator rave about the fascinating process that goes into the production of the common paperclip.

***

The next time it happens- less than thirty-six hours later- he is catching up on some desperately needed sleep in the dressing room. His zombie-like state throughout the day merited him an unquestioned leave of absence during the sound check for the concert later that night.

He is sleeping peacefully until seemingly out of nowhere, terror takes hold of his subconscious. His face contorts in panic as small whimpers escape between the tight-lipped frown spreading across his white cheeks. He twists on the couch, writing in the grasp of an unknown threat, until he tumbles to the ground. He jolts awake on impact, his eyes locking on Ashton who stood frozen in the door frame.

This time, however, Michael remembers the dream in terrifying detail and is helpless to stop the stream of tears pouring from his eyes. The drummer dashes towards him, enveloping the shaking form in his tight grip, comforting sentiments rapidly spilling from his lips.

"Mikey" Ashton calls after a few moments pass. The guitarist simply sniffs in response, burying his face further into the warm embrace. "What was that all about, huh?"

"C-calum" Michael chokes out after some time, "He g-got shot and I j-just stood there" Ashton frowns deeply as a fresh round of tears pool at the corners of Michael's eyes.

"Easy there, love" Ashton coos, rubbing soothing circles across the younger's back, "Cal-Pal is alive and well. You've got nothing to worry your vibrant little head about"

Ashton remains on the floor, with a lap-full of Michael, until the missing half of the band appears. Luke immediately notices the tension in the air, but Michael quickly bursts into a fit of giggles. He rolls from the drummer's lap, and pals around with the youngest, as if nothing ever happened. He dodges the concerned glances from Ashton as Luke babbles on about a new smoothie shack he's dying to try, and sends a loaded glare of 'if you say a word, I'll kill you'.

Ashton nearly forgets about the incident until the later that night, right before they're due to go on stage, when Michael pulls him aside.

"Thanks Ash" Michael rubs at his neck, clearly uncomfortable, "about the whole..." He fumbles with his hands in hopes of conveying his thoughts without having to actually say the embarrassing words.

"Anytime lad" The drummer claps him on the shoulder, "You sure you're alright though? You were pretty wrecked back there"

Michael's cheeks flush slightly, but he shakes his head, "Oh yeah it's nothing. I guess I've been playing to many first person-shooters lately" He laughs off the drummer's worry.

"Alright..." Ashton, however, is not entirely convinced by his nonchalance, "But if you ever need to talk about it, you know where to find me" Ashton rubs at the younger's shoulder once again before walking back towards the rest of the group, who are currently engaged in a rousing rendition of a High School Musical medley.

Michael lingers for a moment, rubbing at his suddenly painfully dry eyes. The nauseating feeling at the bottom of his stomach returns briefly, but he forces himself to get it together for the sake of the concert. The show must go on, he muses miserably, nightmares be damned.

"Mikey you coming?" Calum calls from farther down the hall. He pulls at his face in a quick attempt to sober himself up from the haunting scenarios that his mind keeps wandering to.

"No, but your mom will be!"

***

The show goes seemingly perfect, and for a moment Michael escapes the bloodied scenes that unfold behind his eyelids. The rest of the band calls for a celebration, and quickly climb into a crowded taxi still reveling in the high that engulfs them after a performance of that level. He rests his head on the cool window, falling into a state of numbness as he stares out at the neon signs flickering wildly as the cab speeds down the busy avenue of whatever city they're in at the moment.

A yawn escapes him suddenly, and soon the all-too familiar unsettling feeling returns within him.