The day had already been monumentally shitty. The worst of the worst days. An absolute steaming-pile-of-crap day. So, really, it was only natural to finish it with a perfect cherry on top - his call from Death-Cast.
He was alone when the unmistakabl...
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𝙰𝚜𝚑𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟷𝚜𝚝, 𝟼:𝟷𝟸𝚊𝚖
Ashton was infatuated with Michael. Watching him sing so effortlessly while playing the guitar like he'd been doing it for thirty years was like watching Picasso paint. And, afterwards, when the final notes of Teenage Dirtbag had been played and he'd had the audacity to say that he didn't do well, Ashton had to resist the urge to hit him upside the head. He did perfect. He was perfect. Ashton intended to share the absolute genius of it with the world whenever the video finally decided to upload. The cell towers were still down, much to Michael's relief. Ashton couldn't even send the video to Calum if he'd wanted to.
All Ashton could do for the moment was sit, slumped on the love seat, and stare at Michael, so far off in his own little world of strumming that damn guitar. He was making his own tunes right off the top of his head. He didn't even have to think about it. The music just flowed out of him. Ashton wanted to document every second of it so, after they were gone, other people could see the brilliance Michael was taking to his grave with him.
There was just something about him - something entrancing. Ashton felt like he couldn't pull his eyes away from the boy, entirely too aware of his sweaty, red hair stuck to his pale forehead and the pop of his exposed muscles since he'd pulled off his jacket and left just a tight, white t-shirt in its place.
Ashton licked his lips, his mouth dry as a bone. He tried to take his mind (and eyes) off of Michael, but he physically couldn't. It was a mind game.
"It's rude to stare, y'know."
Ashton snapped out of his trance of watching the veins pop in Michael's arm, finding the red-haired boy to be watching him with a sassy grin and raised eyebrow. He stopped playing and discarded the guitar to its stand, turning back to Ashton with a hand on his hips. His snarky expression soon switched to one of amused surprise.
"Are you flustered right now, Ashton Irwin?"
Ashton hurriedly looked away, willing the vibrant color to fade from his cheeks even though that was definitely a lost cause. Michael already saw and Ashton had the feeling he would not be letting this go.
"No, I'm not-"
"Yes, you are." He laughed. "Oh, my God. I didn't even know you had the mental capacity to be embarrassed."
"Fuck off, Clifford." Ashton crossed his arms and averted his gaze, finding, instead, his eyes locked on the leather of the couch and, suddenly, he didn't feel so comfortable there anymore as the effects of watching red-haired boys faded from his mind. Michael had been acting as a buffer between new memories and old, but it wasn't working anymore. Luke was quickly replacing Michael in Ashton's thoughts. He hurriedly stood up, feeling unnaturally dirty, and crossed the room, stopping only when he was at the door to look out of one of the square windows lined up in a row of six.
