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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𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟷𝚜𝚝, 𝟾:𝟶𝟽𝚊𝚖
Michael didn't feel guilty about the way things went down with Ashton. Guilty was a strong word and Michael's feelings towards Ashton were not strong. Was he, perhaps, uneasy? Sure. He had been very invasive about the whole Luke thing. He probably (definitely) didn't help things all that much. However, he was not guilty. It wasn't like he was the abusive one. That was Luke, so, really, if anyone should be guilty, it was Luke.
Except, even with everything laid out in front of him objectively, Michael found himself with a sickening swirl of shame in his gut. He didn't even know why. He had every right to ask about Luke. The guy was dangerous and Michael was a dead man walking with a target on his back. He was completely justified in asking for details about the situation. But the way Ashton had looked at Michael before he left - like a kicked puppy. Michael felt like the biggest douchebag in the world.
Ashton had been gone for a while - certainly longer than it took to get food. Michael didn't necessarily blame him. He supposed getting into a fight with your abuser would be a difficult situation. Ashton probably just needed to take a breather and then he'd come back. Michael would give him the space he needed.
But, in the meantime, Michael was bored and he was lonely and he was anxious. All of the icky feelings he'd been consumed with before running off with Ashton were returning and he had no distraction to keep them at bay. Ashton, his strange, unexpected death-day partner, was gone and Michael had nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and count the posters on the walls. He'd cleaned up the glass from the broken window and tacked a blanket over the exposed winter air a long while ago. He knew it wasn't his job, but he figured he might as well. It was the nice thing to do, anyway.
He'd strummed on the guitar for a bit, as well as looked around at the cool little artifacts scattered about. But, eventually, he resorted to simply laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. An indiscernible amount of time passed before he got bored with that too. He sighed and heaved himself off of the love seat, wandering around aimlessly before finding himself staring at a pair of drumsticks framed on the wall. A few autographs were scribbled on them, but they were far too messy for Michael to try and figure out who they belonged to.
"I kind of forgot I had those."
Michael startled at the voice behind him, whirling around to see Ashton standing there with a few sodas and bags of cookies and crisps. He stared at the drumsticks for a moment before averting his gaze to Michael, a soft smile on his previously bloody face which had been cleaned and patched up much better than Michael ever could've done.
"Whose signatures are they?" he asked as Ashton moved to set the beverages and snacks down on the couch. He glanced over his shoulder at Michael.
"Coldplay. Harry's, like, a mega-fan and he got me those my first Christmas here. He wanted us to bond over something, I think. I dunno. I was more excited about the drumsticks than the autographs at the time."
