it's me [muke af]

always dirty, never clean//anarbor

always dirty, never clean//anarbor

Michael plopped himself on the ground. A large sweater was hanging over his shoulders, his pale collarbones were more prominent than usual. He looked around the large room they've used as a storage room for fifteen years, boxes were stacked up high, almost to the ceiling. The plain white walls were barely able to be seen with all the nonsense on the ground. 

He pulled the box closest to him, Fuck School was written in Mike's handwriting. He tore off the tape, the flaps flying open with dust spilling all over. Michael let out a cough as he cleared the air around him. 

His cold hands lifted the lids. Mike's green eyes were greeted with stacks and stacks of high school memories. He picked up the books at the top, all of them year books from his four years in that hell hold. 

Michael's cringed opening his freshman year photo. He had a terrible fake-blonde color with a fringe laid across his face. His cheeks were round and red, his smile closed yet annoyed.

He flipped through the pages, glaring at the portraits of the awful teachers whom hated him more than he hated himself. 

His sophomore year wasn't any better.

But something changed junior year when the stupid blonde boy with a shorter fringe walked into his second period music class. He looked at Luke's photo, his blue polo was buttoned up tightly, his shirt freshly ironed. He had a happy smile on his face, a perky smile. Michael never mastered those fake smiles. 

Mike flipped to the back, his fingers running over the signatures and lies. Stay in touch! Have a great summer! He didn't even know who half of these people were anymore, he didn't really want to either. 

In the bottom right, with a forest green sharpie, was Luke's classic signature. Curly letters with a heart at the end. Michael remembers watching him sign it and calling him gay. Michael blushed at the memory, feeling embarrassed by his stupid mouth. 

He knew he was a flaming homosexual at the age of seventeen, but he still felt the need to make the confused freshman named Luke feel bad. He regrets it. 

Mike closed the year book, not wanting to see anymore. He placed to his right, standing on his knees a bit to lean back into the box. 

His hands touched the soft, warm fabric of a sweatshirt. Mike pulled it out, the navy blue and gold colors of his old high school triggering the moments. It was Luke's track and field sweatshirt. The color was a little more faded than Michael remembered, yet it still brought tears to his eyes. 

He remembers wearing it constantly, he doesn't think Luke ever got the chance to wear it himself. Michael liked having the Hemmings name in white lettering across his back. He unfolded the sleeves, twisting the cloth over in his hands. He brought it up to his nose, it still smelled like teenage Luke. It was teenage Luke with his strong cologne that even two decades later hasn't come off.

Michael used to go to almost every track meet, home or away. He hated his school and hated the people in it, but he wanted to see his baby run. It was the only thing those long legs of Luke's were good at—running. 

When it was the boy's turn for events, it was just Michael and all the girlfriend's in the stands. It was awkward, he was always uncomfortable. But, anything for his Lukey. 

Michael folded the sweatshirt, placing it on top of the yearbooks. He hated high school, but he loved Luke. All the good memories were filled with the shy blonde by his side. Luke was the one thing that made Michael's high school experience good.